Haunted
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Six months after Sam leapt into Lucifer's cage, he and Adam were mysteriously freed. Now, the Winchesters keep a low profile to avoid vengeful angels and demons, but a routine poltergeist proves to be anything but routine. Set after Swan Song, AU for season 6 and later. Originally printed in Jeanne Gold's Blood Brothers 5 fanzine in May 2011. Rated T for some language.
1. Chapter 1

_This was written for Jeanne Gold's Blood Brothers 5 fanzine, released in May of 2011._

_It's set after the season 5 finale "Swan Song," but is completely AU from season 6 and later. In this story, Sam and Adam were both freed from Lucifer's cage about six months later, but don't know why or how it happened. The story picks up about four months after they "escaped."_

_I don't own anything. Special thanks to Jeanne, geminigrl11 and Phx for their work in editing. _

_Dedicated to my friend Tamar, who dared me to include as many Ghostbusters references as I could in a SPN story. _

**SPN SPN SPN**

**Haunted**

_Winston-Salem, NC_

"I hate this house," Annette said, leaning against the door to the old study. "You know that, right?"

"Yes, honey." Ted smiled back. "You've only told me ten times _this week_. But Alex would have wanted us to finish what he started. Besides, as soon as we finish the renovation, we can sell it and move anywhere you want."

Annette scoffed. "Like anyone would buy this monstrosity."

The century-old Victorian mansion was three stories high—five, counting the attic and basement—with more rooms, halls, stairs, and closets than Annette had ever seen crammed into one place. Vintage 1890s stonework graced the outside, with actual Victorian-era bedposts creatively converted into railings and fences. Tall, copper-roofed turrets at the corners of the structure housed the bedrooms, and honest-to-God gargoyles stood watch atop the thick oak doors. It was more like a castle than a house, built by some obscure Hungarian architect.

Inside, ornate wood paneling graced every room, making it look both warm and daunting at the same time. Keeping it clean was a nightmare, and Annette figured the original owners must have had servants. It had taken them weeks to find their way around, the multitude of halls and rooms, closets and crawlspaces making it a veritable labyrinth. It was the last kind of house she had expected to find in North Carolina, tucked away in a thick tree grove in the suburbs, away from most prying eyes.

Maybe no one had ever found it to tear it down, she thought sourly.

Her late husband Alex had bought the house expressly for the purpose of fixing it up and flipping it. They spent most of their savings in the process...and then the economy tanked, and their prospects of even finishing the project, let alone making any money off it, seemed remote.

She could have lived with that, except the damned house had cost her husband his life. Once the market sank, Alex had laid off the crew he'd had helping him, choosing to soldier on alone.

"I'll do one room at a time, if I have to," he'd said.

But as he worked, he'd become more and more obsessed. He'd spent hours in the basement, knocking out walls and replacing the floor. Sometimes his choices didn't seem to make sense, but he assured her they would eventually.

Finally, one night, she'd come into the very study she stood in now to let him know dinner was ready, only to find him hanging from the exposed rafters. The police wrote the whole thing off as a suicide, but Annette still wasn't sure. There was something about the house, something that made her nervous…scared her.

Ted had come down from New York after that, leaving his carpet cleaning business in receivership to finish his brother's work and help Annette raise her son, Ian. Things had been better for a while, and with Ted's help and her salary from that deferred bonus, she'd somehow made ends meet and kept Ian enrolled at his expensive day care service so he wouldn't lose his place on the list.

But then the noises started. Ted had resumed the renovation work, starting where Alex had left off, and a few days later, they were woken by horrendous sounds from that part of the house. Annette had heard stories about haunted houses, but she'd never really believed until it was happening in _hers_. What was worse, the disturbances seemed centered around the old study where Alex had hanged himself.

The police came, searching the grounds, but found nothing. Annette had a friend on the force who'd been willing to place a cruiser outside for a few nights if it came to that, but in the end, the authorities had no answers.

"Alex bought it," Ted murmured.

Annette blinked, torn from her reverie. "What?"

"Alex," Ted repeated, looking up from where he was measuring a two-by-four. "He bought this place. If he was interested, others will be, too. Might take some hard work, but we can do it."

She smiled. "I wish I shared your optimism."

"I can be optimistic for both of us."

"Oh, so corny. The schmaltz police are probably on their way."

"I try." Ted grinned before turning back to the wooden beam he was working on.

Annette sighed. "I think I'll go for a walk. Come to think of it, that's one nice thing about this place. It's so big, you can get all your exercise indoors."

"That's the spirit, honey!" Ted called as she moved out into the hall.

The long, oak-paneled hallways were dark, even in daytime, so Annette had taken to keeping the lights on all the time. There were so many twists and turns that simply opening curtains wasn't enough.

The first floor was more or less finished, Alex having completed most of it before he died. On the second floor, only two of the high-ceilinged bedrooms—in the turrets closest to the front of the house—were done, the rest of the sprawling space remaining in various stages of renovation. The third floor was by far the biggest challenge. More guest rooms, an old library that had been sealed and walled-up at some point, and a sunroom waited up there. Most of the glass in the sun room was cracked, and would need replacing, and the wiring was shot.

Annette sighed, heading down the winding east stairs to the first floor. It was a lot of work, and without a crew, would take them a very long time to finish.

She reached the bottom of the stairwell and entered the large, well-adorned den. Ted didn't need her help with the heavy woodwork, so she decided to watch some television.

It was cool outside, so they were making regular use of the house's huge fireplace. The fire crackled loudly as Annette settled onto the sofa and started flipping channels. She stopped on _Headline News_, but started to feel cold.

Standing, Annette moved to place another log on the fire, but halfway to the hearth, the air temperature in the room seemed to plummet. The image in the TV screen began to break up, the sound first becoming garbled and then silent as the signal completely stopped and the screen went blue.

Without warning, a ball of fire erupted from the fireplace, smoke and cinders blasting out into the room. Annette yelped and stumbled back toward the sofa. Then she gasped.

In the flames and smoke, something took shape. It wasn't solid, but it seemed to be taking the form of a man. The apparition stepped toward her, extending a translucent arm in her direction.

"_Soon_…." The deep, unearthly voice came from everywhere, echoing in her head.

Annette screamed and scrambled out of the room. "Ted! _Ted_!"

She lost sight of the intruder as she bolted up the stairs.

**SPN SPN SPN**

_Two Days Later_

_High Point, NC_

The room was too bright.

Dean grimaced and turned his face into the pillow, trying to keep the light away. He slowly became aware of his throbbing head. The light wasn't helping it at all.

Neither was the _click-clack_ sound of fingers on a keyboard. That was too loud.

Ignoring it was an option, and Dean tried his best, but the sound continued, stopping and starting, stopping and starting, and every _click_ and _clack_ echoed through his skull like a drummer laying into cymbals. He tried, clumsily, to pull the pillow over his head, but either his arms weren't cooperating or the pillow was fighting back.

God's honest truth was, Dean couldn't be sure which.

The maddening _click-clack click-clack_ paused—once, twice, a third time, longer that time—and Dean wondered hopefully if it was gone, but then it returned.

"Arggghhh." Dean rolled onto his back and forced his eyes open, careful to keep one hand between them and the window. He raised his pulsating head to seek out the offensive noise. Adam Milligan sat at the motel room's small table, a mug in one hand, a pen in the other, and the laptop open. "God help me, you better be looking at porn."

Dean's youngest brother glanced over at him, a smirk teasing the edge of his mouth. He wisely controlled his facial muscles, opting for a more innocent expression. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Not that there's any good reason to be awake at—" Dean glanced at the clock between the beds. "_Seven-thirty_? Seriously, that'd _better_ be porn!"

"Just looking for a hunt. You told me to pick one."

Glaring at the younger man for a moment, Dean suppressed a decidedly vulgar remark and rubbed his eyes. It was still too bright in there. "Don't remind me. You couldn't sleep?"

Adam's face tightened for a moment before he forced a shrug. "Didn't really want to."

"Nightmare again?"

Another shrug.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not—not particularly, no," Adam replied, not unkindly. He had been tight-lipped about his problems since returning from the Pit, just as Sam had. It was something they had in common. That didn't stop Dean from trying though, with either of them.

"I am a great listener, kid. Don't let this hunter's façade or these stunning good looks deceive you. I could have been an excellent psychologist. I _love_ helping people."

Adam smirked. "You just want a job where you can get girls on a couch."

Dean blinked. _Deflecting, as usual_. "I didn't say there weren't any other benefits."

"Would you two please _shut up_?" Sam's groggy voice rang out from beneath an undulating mass of pillows, clothes, white sheets, and flowery comforter on the other bed. A disheveled mop of hair popped out near the foot of the bed, revealing one glaring, bloodshot eye.

Dean grinned, then grabbed his drool-damp pillow and sent it spinning across the room.

It smacked his brother right in the face, producing a satisfying "oof," and a very offensive, mumbled retort.

"Rise and shine, Sammy."

"Ugh…I hate you both," Sam grumbled as he displayed a serious lack of coordination while trying to extricate himself from the pile of bedsheets.

"You two are really pissy when you're hungover," Adam observed quietly, clicking something on the laptop and jotting down a note in the journal Dean had picked out for him.

"_Sammy's_ the only pissy one. He can't hold his liquor."

Sam's mumbled retort was decidedly immature.

Dean grinned; it was nice to know he could still bring out the "adult" in his kid brother. He turned back to Adam. "Racing down Main Street with that Mustang was pretty cool, though."

Adam eyed him for a moment. "That was a dream."

Dean frowned. "No, we raced. I remember."

"Trust me, I was driving last night, we didn't race anybody."

"It was only a dream?" Dean asked. He was beginning to question all of his recollections from the night before. Adam just nodded, which made Dean frown deeper. "How do _you_ know what I was dreaming? Sam's the psychic one."

"You were talking in your sleep."

Dean blinked. "Oh. Um…and I suppose that me bringing that dancer from the Tiki Club back here was only a dream, too?"

"Or a hallucination," Sam added helpfully.

"You'd better hope it was one of those," Adam admonished, grimacing. "That place was _nasty_."

Dean shrugged. "Eh, I've done worse."

"Seen worse," Adam corrected absently, scribbling some more.

"No, he means _done_," Sam countered. "I know what you mean about weird dreams, though, Dean. I dreamt we were in the car, and we kept passing this gigantic set of dresser drawers _over and over_."

"No, that was real," Adam replied, turning away from the laptop. He gestured at Sam. "Stanford over here couldn't read the map, so we circled the hotel about five times. That dresser is a few streets over from us. It's some kind of local landmark. This is a furniture town."

Sam was frowning now, looking skeptical. "It had a giant pair of socks hanging out of it…"

Adam nodded. "Yeah…it's a little creepy, if you ask me."

"Why did you let Sam read the map, anyway?" Dean asked. "He was wasted."

"Because you were already passed out in the backseat." Adam sneered lightly. "And I don't think it's a good idea for the designated driver to have his head buried in a map while he's trying to drive in the middle of the night."

"Oh." Dean scratched behind his ear. The previous evening really was a blur. "Yeah, well, it was all worth it."

Dean glanced over as Sam groaned and pulled the comforter back over his head. He yawned and stretched his shoulders. Unlike Sam, he wouldn't bother trying to go back to sleep with the headache hammering inside his skull.

They had more than enough reasons to drink, and they took every chance to do just that. The past few months had been hard. Sam had been successful in putting Lucifer back in his cage, but at the cost of jumping in himself. Worse, Adam had been dragged into the Pit with him when Michael, who was possessing him, couldn't let go.

For Adam, it was the worst possible case of "wrong place at the wrong time," but they'd both suffered horribly. Sam took the brunt of it, but Adam was a close second. They'd spent six months in the deepest parts of Hell with two very angry archangels to keep them company.

Six months—from Dean's point of view. He knew all too well that time moved differently down below. Dean's four months had been close to _forty years_. Lucifer's cage was somewhat different. Dean assumed about sixty years, but from what little he'd gotten out of Sam, he suspected that it might have been considerably longer.

_Your Hell is gonna make my tour look like Graceland. You want me just to sit by and do nothing?_

From the intensity of Sam's nightmares in the months since, Dean was pretty sure his prediction had been correct.

Then, suddenly—mysteriously—Adam and Sam had both been rescued and returned to Earth, and no one, including Castiel, seemed to know why or how. Lucifer was still locked away, battling his older brother for eternity. The world had been saved from the Apocalypse. That should have been fantastic news, but it came with a whole new set of problems. The underworld's pecking order had been disrupted. With the Devil and three of the four Horsemen out of commission, the lesser demons, fallen angels, and a host of other monstrosities were vying for power, both in Hell and topside.

Castiel was having trouble reining in the chaos in Heaven, following Michael's loss and the dissolution of Zachariah's cadre of traitors. Archangels were jockeying for position up there, and Heaven's army on Earth—sent down to fight the planned Apocalypse—had been halted, leaving the world in the limbo of a tense cease-fire.

All of which was well above the Winchesters' pay grades, and normally, they would have exited stage left and been done with it, but things were never that simple. Sam was on Hell's Most Wanted list. Some saw him as an escapee who deserved to be punished, some saw him as competition. Adam was viewed by some rogue angels as the reason Michael fell or, at least, a defective vessel that needed to be eliminated. Dean…well, neither side was happy with him. The Enochian protective sigils Castiel had burned into all their ribs was the only thing that kept them off the bigger bad guys' radar, and they had to lay low to make sure nothing _else_ noticed them.

_Situation normal, basically_. Dean frowned. His relationship with Lisa was on the rocks; his own inability to move on with his new, post-hunting life had been bad enough, and then was made worse when Sam and Adam had reappeared. Not that he'd have given his brothers up for anything, but the sad truth was, their return had made a bad situation with Lisa worse, and finally, she'd walked away.

Yeah, they had more than enough reasons to drink.

But they couldn't just lay low. Staying in one place was dangerous, and if they had to keep moving, the least they could do was help some people along the way. Sam had come back more committed to hunting than ever, and more inclined to seeing things in black and white than when he was younger. He still researched and planned as methodically as ever—not even Hell could beat that out of him—but there was a lot less wringing of hands and a lot more shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later.

In some ways, Dean felt the change was good. Scary on occasion, but good.

Adam was a different case. He had no home to return to with his mother dead, and his pre-med days at UW were over. His absence from school, and the circumstances surrounding it, created too many questions he couldn't answer—without fear of being institutionalized. On top of all that, his nightmares were about as bad as Sam's. The kid had nowhere to go, and despite some misgivings about him becoming a hunter, Sam and Dean weren't going to turn their half-brother away. Family was too hard to come by, and they'd sacrificed so much in the name of it…so they took him under their proverbial wings.

Which brought Dean back to the present, and Adam's big day. He'd been training with them for a few months, and was a quick study. It was time for him to take the lead on his first hunt. If they could find a low-risk, low-visibility one. They'd decided to let Adam handle searching for and choosing something that caught his eye. Subject to their approval, of course. The experience would be good for him.

"So." Dean turned away from Sam—who seemed to be rethinking getting up and was burrowing deeper into his bed—and faced Adam, who was draining his coffee mug. "Big day."

"Yeah." Adam smiled nervously.

Dean could see the excitement beneath the tired surface. He remembered his first hunt, and knew he'd been the same way. "Find anything yet?"

"Um, well maybe. I have a list." Adam held up a legal pad covered in scribbled notes. There appeared to be several pages of them.

Dean raised his eyebrows, smirking. "Look at that. Sam's rubbing off on you."

Sam muttered something from beneath the covers, which Dean couldn't decipher, but it sounded positive, so he left well enough alone. He looked back at his youngest sibling. "All right, you have choices. Let's hear 'em."

"Okay." Adam glanced at the pad. "I shied away from anything that sounded like a possession or, you know, Biblical. Figured we don't need that kind of heat right now."

Sam said something that sounded like "Good call."

Dean ignored him. "Uh-huh."

"So, I narrowed it down to hauntings and the like. We, uh, have one in a Manhattan police station, the 53rd Precinct. Report says the walls were _bleeding_."

"That one could be a couple of things," Sam piped up, head suddenly above ground again. "Haunting, demon, poltergeist…."

It made Dean antsy. "Eh…police station, security cameras, I dunno. Two of the three of us are legally dead, ex-fugitives. Last thing we need is some cop with an unsolved mysteries fetish running our faces. I'm gonna say no."

Sam thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, that's a no. What else you got?"

"Okay. Some city workers went missing in an underground sewer line in Baltimore. I thought it might be a shapeshifter, but a body showed up a few days later with a pretty big bite mark in it. I checked in Dad's journal, and if the marks are the same, I think it might be this…" He handed Dean the open book, pointing to a picture and its accompanying notation.

Dean read it aloud. "A large and moving torb."

"Ugh," Sam groaned.

"What's a torb, anyway?" Adam asked. The journal's notes were sparse on the subject.

Dean scowled. "Well, it's a—" He looked at Sam, who was shaking his head in disgust. "Well, it's this big, _round_— It's hard to explain, but let's just say that it's easier to kill the _un_moving kind."

"Moving on." Sam motioned for Adam to continue.

"Um, okay… Camp Waconda, New Jersey. A man was attacked by a bear."

"What's so odd about that?" Dean asked, frowning.

Adam looked up at him. "The bear was already dead."

Dean glanced at Sam. "Uh…"

"No."

"Why not?" Adam asked.

Sam and Dean spoke at the same time. "We hate camping."

Adam rolled his eyes and flipped the page. "All right. I see this is going to take a while…."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Moving on."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Finding Adam's first official hunt was going to be harder than Dean thought. He and Sam had vetoed all of the younger man's first six potential choices. It wasn't all that unexpected, really.

A hunter's first solo job needed to be simple, uncomplicated. First day jitters could make some desk jockey's work stressful or embarrassing. On a hunt, they could get someone killed. That meant finding some relatively straightforward haunting or poltergeist, maybe a slow-moving, dimwitted monster that could be tracked down and blown away with shotguns in one day's work.

For Sam's first hunt, it had taken weeks to find the perfect situation. But Sammy had been a lot younger than Adam, and they'd had the benefit of their dad's keen eye to choose for them. Adam was older, but virtually new to the whole hunting world—despite being murdered by ghouls and resurrected by back-stabbing, manipulative angels in the past couple of years. The kid had merely been a target before. Now he was learning how to fight back.

None of which was helped by the depressing fact that they all were on some form of Most Wanted list after the Apocalypse. Life just wasn't simple anymore.

"Thank God breakfast still is," Dean murmured to himself.

"What?" Sam asked, glancing over the edge of the newspaper he was reading.

"Nothing."

They were crammed into a tight booth in the back corner of a very crowded IHOP, waiting for their food to arrive. Whatever else could be said about a town that seemed to take pride in being the home of a singer named after a Disney movie, built giant, mildly creepy furniture monuments, and sported a hospital that looked like it came straight out of Star Trek…it had an IHOP. Dean couldn't disapprove of that.

What he could disapprove of was the condition of his younger brothers.

Sam was in bad shape after his time in Lucifer's cage. On the outside, few could see anything wrong. He joked, he bantered, he hung out, but Dean knew it was a front. Hell tore big holes in someone—Dean knew from experience—that didn't heal overnight. Or necessarily _at all_. Sam drank about as heavily as Dean had when he'd first gotten out, and any time he didn't, he was plagued by intense nightmares that were slowly taking their toll.

Dean saw it sometimes. Sam would be shaving, talking, reading, and just suddenly seem to go _blank_. Flashbacks. Other times it was more subtle. He would lose his train of thought when talking about the simplest of things, or forget how to draw a Devil's Trap. From Sam's point of view, it had been many torturous decades since that day in Stull, and life hadn't exactly been Oktoberfest before that. Sam had taken a few bad hits to the psyche before Lucifer possessed him, as well.

Trouble was, Sam refused to talk about any of it. He professed to want to put it all behind him, but they both knew that was impossible, especially when hunting was about all they could cling to. It wasn't exactly a lifestyle that helped people forget their demons.

Adam had faired a little better in life, but was having similar nightmares about Hell, and was surely still messed up from being eaten alive by ghouls and then resurrected for Zachariah's treacherous game. Dean knew he wasn't sleeping much, like Sam. The younger man had decided to stick with his brothers, though, for some reason Dean couldn't determine. He wasn't sure he would have done the same, given half a chance.

The younger brother in question was sitting across from Dean, eyes closed, perched over another coffee. His fifth of the day, from what Dean had counted. Adam was a little easier to fix, though, compared to Sam. He just needed a big brother to look out for him. Fortunately, he had two.

"Hey! No sleeping!" Dean swatted at the kid's elbow lightly, jolting him awake.

"There's a short stack coming with your name on it."

Adam didn't keep his eyes open. "Fine. Wake me up when it gets here."

"You know what your problem is?" Dean began sagely, winking when Sam glanced over at him. "You don't get enough exercise. No energy."

"I get plenty of exercise. If I don't have any energy," he crooked his thumb in Sam's direction, "it's because this giraffe took me on a six-mile run yesterday afternoon, before you two decided to take all night emptying out every bar east of this town's main drag."

Sam chuckled, not looking up from his newspaper. "And all on the eve of your first hunt, too."

Dean was glad Sam was playing along. "Was that this week? I completely forgot."

Adam cracked one eye open and glared at him. "Is this your idea of hazing? 'Cause, you know, I can take it, but I'd just like to know what we're doing."

"We don't haze people," Sam stated categorically, still perusing the headlines.

"No, absolutely not. This isn't some fraternity."

Sam's newspaper lowered again. "Well, _technically_…"

"You guys suck." Adam closed his eyes again.

"But we don't haze," Dean confirmed happily.

Sam looked contemplative. "You _did_ take Castiel to a brothel once."

"That was different."

Adam looked up again. "You took an angel to a brothel?"

"It wasn't as bad as it sounds."

"That's not what Cas told me," Sam said quietly.

"What—?" Dean looked over at Sam. "Wait. What did Cas tell you?"

The waitress arrived before Sam could answer. She was short and plump, with just enough gray hair to suggest that she'd been in her job far too long, but she was nice and kept their coffee mugs topped off without being asked. Dean intended to leave her a big tip. She also liked to flirt with younger men, which should have bothered Dean more than it did.

"Special with bacon for you, Sweetie." She lowered Dean's plate in front of him. "And two short stacks."

She arranged Adam's and Sam's plates, then counted their mugs. "And coffee, coffee…coffee. Be right back with the pot."

"Thanks, Angie!" Dean grinned merrily as she moved away. "I like her. She's nice."

Adam dug into his pancakes like he hadn't eaten in days. The workouts Sam was inflicting on him were really increasing his appetite. Dean, for one, was happy Sammy couldn't make him exercise that much. Being the eldest had its perks, besides Dean didn't need a drill instructor. For all Sam's resentment of their Marine-style, semi-boot camp upbringing, he certainly had taken their dad's PT ethic to heart.

Sam had put the newspaper aside but, as often of late, was only picking at his food. Something else Dean would have to address sooner or later. Alcohol intake up, appetite down: that was a recipe for trouble.

"You find anything in the paper?" Dean asked, watching Sam chew a small forkful of pancakes with obvious disinterest.

The younger man shook his head. "Nothing. Maybe we can call Bobby. He's bound to have something we can look into."

"Looks like my initiation will have to wait," Adam added, smirking around a mouthful of syrupy pancakes. He had Sam's taste in food, and Dean's table manners.

"Don't give up so soon, kiddo," Dean chided. "Sometimes hunts just fall into your lap."

Angie returned to fill their mugs, and Dean watched past her as two uniformed police officers entered the restaurant and settled at the table right across the aisle from them. Judging by their uniforms, one was a local High Point cop, the other an apparently off-duty Winston-Salem patrol officer. Winston-Salem was the next town over, if Dean remembered his maps of the state.

Dean surreptitiously eyed them, as he did all cops, and casually tuned in to listen for any sign of trouble. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam doing the same thing from behind Adam. The officers, however, seemed interested in only food and some private gossip.

"…so what are you going to do?"

"I don't know, Charlie. Annette's convinced her house is haunted. We've been all over the lot and the house, and there's nothing there. No sign of forced entry."

"But she's hearing noises?"

"Screams, moans, scraping. Hell, it's a regular Halloween story, man."

"You think it's a prank?"

"I think she misses her husband."

"Is this that same old mansion…?"

"Yeah, the one off Maplewood, near the hospital. Creepy place. I'm surprised it wasn't torn down years ago and turned into an apartment complex."

"Heh, like there aren't enough of those around."

The cops chatted until Angie swung by to take their orders. Dean looked at Sam, who was looking back with raised eyebrows. Apparently, Adam had tuned in, too. The kid was a fast learner.

"Fall into our laps, huh?" Adam asked quietly.

Dean smiled. "Sometimes, it's just that easy."

They finished eating, and headed out.

Dean left a hefty tip for Angie before swiping at Sam's arm on the way out the door. "Seriously, dude, what did Cas tell you?"

**SPN SPN SPN**

_It's just a piece of scrap metal_. Sam kept telling himself that, but it wasn't working. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, waiting for Dean to come back from buying his lottery ticket. He'd felt fine a moment ago…before the glint of sunlight from the ground had caught his eye. Then he'd felt anything but fine.

He could feel it. The blade. It cut skin and muscle easily, snagged a little on tendons. The demons with talons or teeth were bad enough, but the ones with blades…they could make a person beg. Not that begging ever worked. Usually, it all just got worse when he begged. Sam could feel the blade, pulling down his side, the blood flowing out, warm and heavy against his too-cold skin—

A hand wrapped around his shoulder from behind, shaking him. He jumped, snapping his head around. Adam frowning at him wasn't what he expected to find, but it was better than the alternatives.

"You hear me?"

Sam blinked. "What?"

"I said it's only a piece of aluminum, Sam. It's not a razor."

He released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and turned back to the open car door. Sure enough, it was just a scrap of an old can someone had left behind. He shot a questioning look at Adam, wondering if maybe that psychic crack Dean had made at the motel held some water.

"I saw that same look in the mirror a while back. Remember, when I didn't shave for a week?"

"Oh. Right."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Sam tried to loosen the knot of tension that had developed in his shoulders, and made a point to stare in a different direction than before. Pulling all the memories back and stuffing them into the corners of his brain where he'd been keeping them wasn't easy. Some days it was impossible. Those were the times he professed to having migraines and stayed in bed. That wasn't really an option today, so Sam just tried to focus on something else. The cold breeze, the sounds of cars rushing by on the street, the chattering of a pair of college-age girls nearby.

Anything.

"You should talk to Dean."

Sam turned again. Adam was watching him from his perch against the rear passenger side door, eyes filled with sympathy. No, not sympathy, Sam reminded himself. Empathy. Adam had hung beside him the whole time.

"He notices it, you know? He's not stupid."

"I know that," Sam rumbled, vaguely annoyed. _Don't you think I'd talk to him if I could?_ He wanted to say it, but shook his head instead. "He's got enough problems without worrying about mine."

Adam didn't answer, just shifted his view out the window. The weather was in that odd phase between winter and spring. The sun warmed everything, making the inside of the car hot while the air outside was still chilly. With the Impala, that meant rolling the windows down when she was parked, otherwise they'd be drenched in sweat after only a short while.

"Have _you_ ever talked to him about it? Your stuff, I mean." Sam turned the argument around on the younger man. "Your nightmares are still bad."

"Not really," Adam muttered, eyes far away. "I don't really— I mean, he's my brother, but I barely _know_ him. Not the way you do."

Sam smiled faintly. "You've known him as long as you've known me."

"You know _that_ isn't exactly true," Adam mused, cocking an eyebrow but still staring out the window.

Sam knew what he meant. He and Adam had spent...well, Hell was different. Sam knew, without any doubt, that he'd been down there a little over six months. He'd seen calendars, read newspapers, he knew that was true.

Yet, in his mind, he felt _ancient_, rather than just shy of his twenty-eighth birthday. That dichotomy alone was gnawing at him. He should ask Dean how he'd kept from going crazy just thinking about that. How could you know precisely how old you were, yet literally feel decades older? How could you justify being gone only six months, with the memory of decades of pain and torture filling your brain?

"Don't get me wrong," Adam continued as if he hadn't just sent Sam's mind spinning off into a metaphysical knot.

Sam realized he'd completely missed part of their conversation.

"Dean's great. I wouldn't give either of you guys up for anything. I never had brothers before. It's just…hard to get used to."

"It can be a blast," Dean cut in, dropping suddenly into the driver's seat. "Once you get used to _Samantha's_ PMS." He playfully jabbed a bottle of water into Sam's side.

"Thanks." Sam sneered back, twisting the cap off the bottle while Dean handed Adam's Gatorade over the seat.

"What were you guys talking about? Looked pretty deep."

Dean's expression was carefully neutral, but Sam knew he was probing. For a moment, he wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want to lie. There'd been too many lies. All that belonged behind them.

Adam swooped to his rescue before Sam could answer. "Sam's buzz is just wearing off, and he's gettin' all _depressed_."

"Ah." Dean nodded, shifting the Impala into gear. "Been there, man. You know…I, for one, am going to miss this town."

Sam frowned at the non sequitur, glancing over. "Why?"

"It's one of the few places we've been where we can get socks in your size, Sasquatch." At Sam's perplexed look, he added, "I saw them in that dresser."

Adam laughed behind him.

Sam glowered. "Jerk."

**SPN SPN SPN**

According to the map, the route between High Point and Winston-Salem should have only taken twenty or so minutes. Unfortunately, a state trooper was up ahead, causing every car to slow to well below the speed limit. Sam cracked his window. The heat was building up, despite the vents being open.

Adam had fallen asleep in the backseat, the caffeine wearing off and his long night catching up with him. Sam eyed him in the side mirror. He could tell a nightmare was starting. _Sucks that one would start so soon_.

"Should we wake him up?" Dean asked, glancing into the rearview.

Sam shook his head, picking at the label on his water bottle. "It doesn't look too bad. He'll be okay, for as long as we're going to be on the road."

They rode in silence for a beat before Dean spoke again. "How about you? How're you holding up?"

"I have to pee," Sam deadpanned.

Dean looked at him in momentary surprise, then laughed. "Of _course_ you do. You guzzled that entire bottle of water in five minutes!"

Sam grinned with him. It felt good. Just _being_. He'd give anything to spend the rest of his life like this, and sometimes, irrationally, Sam wished the road in front of them would never end. He wanted to stay just like this, free of his past, free of everything. But it never worked out that way.

Not liking where that line of thought was leading, Sam shifted in his seat. "So, uh…do you think this is going to be anything?"

Dean considered him for a moment, then shrugged. "I dunno. People think they see ghosts all the time, but it doesn't always mean anything. That cop said this woman lost her husband. Could be her imagination."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Well, we should find a motel first, just in case we end up staying."

"Yeah. You find out where we're going yet?"

Sam pulled out his cell and used the GPS. "There's going to be an exit for a mall once we get into town. Take that one, go right, and we should be able to find the street easy enough."

Dean nodded. "We should scope the town out a little, see what cover we can use."

"You getting bored with the FBI again?"

"Well, from the sound of it, this seems kinda small for the Feds. I'm thinking we might want to be more creative."

Sam glanced over. "Like how? Gas company? City inspector?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, something like that. Besides, we're going to need to make new IDs anyway. We've never been here."

That made Sam smile. As mundane as it might have been, he knew Dean loved making fake IDs. A glove box full of them, and yet his brother got positively giddy building a new cover.

Dean seemed to read his expression, since he was smiling, too. "It's the little things, bro. What'd Bobby say when you called him?"

Sam squirmed a bit. "I told him about the case. Told him what we know."

"Yeah?"

"He asked if we're in kindergarten."

Dean huffed. "It's Adam's first hunt!"

Sam grinned ruefully. "He also said we're babying him."

"Well, _you_ are, maybe, but not me."

"I am not!" Sam shot back, keeping his voice down. "Besides, Bobby said it was you."

Dean glanced at the backseat, then lowered his voice, too. "Well, I would remind Mr. Tough Love that Adam wasn't raised in the life like we were, and his introduction to it wasn't the most pleasant experience in the universe, so we need to take this slow."

"You'd never say that to him," Sam said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I would."

"No, you wouldn't. You're scared of Bobby."

Dean glared at him. "I am _not_ scared of Bobby."

Sam held out his phone. "Call him and tell him what you just said, then."

Eyeing the phone, Dean shook his head. His tone grew haughty. "I wouldn't want to interrupt whatever he's doing with something so ridiculous. But that doesn't mean I'm afraid of him. I'm not afraid of anything."

Sam stared at him a moment, then nodded once. "I agree. You're not afraid of anything."

"Glad we got that settled."

"Except Bobby."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:_ This chapter contained a few scenes that got edited out of the printed version. They were fun, but didn't contribute much to the story, so I was asked to cut them and I did. But, they __were__ fun, so I'm going to post them at the end as an additional chapter. Call them "deleted scenes."_

**SPN SPN SPN**

**Chapter 2**

Sam surveyed the area around them warily. The address was pretty much at the _end_ of Maplewood, just outside the city limits. Lots of trees surrounded the property, cutting off view of the street from most angles. The house—or maybe "palatial estate" described it better—dominated the property and cast looming shadows over their surroundings. Above the thick oak door, a large, stone gargoyle stared down at them, its bat-like wings curled behind it as if it were prepared to jump.

"A little too Dracula…" he said quietly.

"Tell me about it." Dean nodded, stepping up to ring the doorbell. The button was more modern, and out of place.

"You sure this'll work?" Adam asked, fidgeting with his new student ID for the tenth time.

"Relax," Dean murmured, eyes front as he waited for the door to open. "Just let Sam do the talking for now."

They were posing as researchers from the local university, studying "legitimate paranormal events and how they affect everyday life." Dean was especially proud of this cover. Sam had to admit it was more fun than their usual federal agent shtick. It also meant they could dress less formally. No suits and ties, just blazers over button-down shirts, and school IDs hung on nylon lanyards around their necks. That helped, since they hadn't stopped to buy Adam any G-Man duds yet.

The door opened, revealing a short woman wearing glasses. She looked like she hadn't slept well in days. "Yes?"

Sam stepped forward slowly. "Mrs. Fleming?"

"Yes."

"Hello, we're sorry to disturb you, but we have a mutual friend in the police department, and we heard that…well, that you're having trouble. We'd like to help if we can."

"Help me how?" Annette appeared hesitant.

Sam put on his most sincere smile and plunged ahead. "We're researchers over at Wake Forest University, studying parapsychology and…well, local paranormal events. The incidents you reported sounded very interesting to us, and, with your permission, we'd like to open an investigation."

Annette was still on guard, but Sam could see her relax slightly. She seemed intrigued. "And…Bob told you about…?"

Cue Dean. "He told us the police department wasn't taking this as seriously as he thought they should. His superiors seemed to want to write the whole thing off as a prank, but he said he believed you. If you say something's going on, then it probably is and he put in a call to our office."

"Yes." Sam nodded. "Oh, please, we're being rude. Allow us to introduce ourselves." He gestured toward Dean and Adam. "This is—" He blinked. Just like that, the whole cover story fled his brain. _Not now…damn it! Think. We just went over it in the car!_

Thankfully, Dean seemed to sense his distress and took over, barely missing a beat.

"I'm Doctor Stantz, this is Doctor Peck." He gestured at Sam. "And our nervous colleague, here, is _Egon_."

Annette gave him a curious look, and Sam finally snapped out of his haze. "Doctor _Yeager_," he corrected, shooting a glare at Dean. "It's a pleasure, Mrs. Fleming."

"Egon Yeager?"

Sam's embarrassment was only half faked. Dean had promised they wouldn't mention the ridiculous first name he'd put on the ID. "It's a…family name."

She looked a little confused, but must have believed them, since she stepped back from the door and motioned them inside. "Please, come in. Uh…I'm happy someone believes us. For a while, I thought the police were just humoring us."

"Well, please understand," Dean looked contrite, "the police aren't taking any official position. Bob just hoped we could help."

"I understand," she replied, still appearing happy. "Um, please sit. Can I offer you anything?"

Inside, the house seemed somewhat more welcoming, but not much. Ornate wood paneling covered every wall. The foyer led to a large den with a fireplace on one side and two large windows on the other. Sam spied a series of decorations and ornate woodwork along the walls—the craftsmanship was amazing. The ceiling was unusual, wide seams crisscrossing the stucco surface at bizarre angles that didn't follow the walls or windows.

The three of them sat on her sofa, Dean smiling broadly. "Uh, actually, if Doctor Yeager here could have some water? He always gets so nervous around new people."

She smiled. "Of course. I'll be right back."

As soon as she was around the corner, Dean elbowed Sam and whispered, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Sam growled.

"Sam…"

"I'm fine!" Sam snapped, harsher than he intended. "I'm sorry, I just— I've got it together now, I swear."

Annette reappeared with Sam's glass of water and a man in tow, cutting off any further discussion. "This is my husband, Ted."

Dean, Sam, and Adam rose in unison and introduced themselves.

Adam spoke up. "We were just talking about what an amazing house this is."

"Thank you." Ted nodded. "Annette was telling me you are from the university."

"Yes, sir." Adam smiled, nervously raising his ID.

Dean subtly elbowed him and hissed something that sounded like "Relax."

Sam took a gulp of water from the glass, wishing Dean had asked for something stronger.

"Exactly what kind of investigation do you want to start here?"

"Well," Adam began more calmly as they took their places on the sofa, "as my associates were telling your wife, we've been studying urban legends, local ghost stories, anything paranormal that's indigenous to the area. Our goal is to determine the origins and what, if any, basis in fact these stories have."

"Oh," Ted said quietly, clearly processing the story.

"We've been working on this thesis for a few years now, and I have to tell you," Adam's smile had a faint air of _Dean_ to it, "this is the first time we've come across a paranormal event _in progress_. We're really excited!"

Ted and Annette shared a look, and from what Sam could read, it looked hopeful.

"Um, well, I can tell you we're relieved to see someone actually taking us seriously for a change… What, uh, what would we have to do?" Annette asked.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," Adam reassured them. "We need to look into the history of the house, the neighborhood, take some samples, and of course, we'll have to interview you both very thoroughly as to what you've seen and heard. Other than that, you'll barely know we're here."

Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, except for the EMF and the infrared scans of the house. It's more accurate when fewer people are around, and less power's being used, all that. We'd have to ask you to leave during that portion of the investigation. For a house this size, it'd probably take a couple of hours."

"EMF?" Annette asked, frowning.

"Electromagnetic frequencies," Sam chimed in. "Spirits and certain…events produce energy that can linger around the location for days."

Ted didn't seem as curious. "Look, guys, I'm sorry, but we can't just let you have the run of our home without some kind of proof that you are who you say you are."

Adam nodded sympathetically. "We completely understand your hesitation, Mr. Fleming. Believe me, we're used to it. I know all this must be a little overwhelming." He dug in his coat pocket and produced a business card. "Here. You can call this number, talk to Professor Singer. He's head of the project."

"Not local?" Ted asked, eyeing the card with some suspicion.

Adam was quick to smile. "He's local, but he's still using his old number from South Dakota State. He's based right here on the Wake Forest campus. If you'd like to call," Adam eyed his watch, "he should be in the office."

The Flemings looked from the card to their visitors and back.

Finally, Ted nodded. "All right. Excuse us. Honey?"

Annette followed him back into the kitchen. Sam could hear them talking in hushed tones. He saw Dean grinning out of the corner of his eye.

"Look at our man Adam, Sammy. Handled that like a pro!" Dean proclaimed quietly.

Adam released a breath. "Oh, God, that was— What a rush!"

Sam couldn't help but smile, his brothers' enthusiasm contagious. "See? Nothing to this. You're a natural."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Bobby had just found the passage he'd been searching for when the phone started ringing. Again. With a sigh, he set the massive demonology text aside and headed for the kitchen. "You're just gonna have to wait a little longer, Rufus."

Dean had finally gotten the lights set up, so it was easier to pinpoint which of the six phones was ringing—the gaudy yellow cordless marked "academia" in this case. The boys seemed to be branching out lately, using fewer law enforcement covers. Bobby picked up the phone on the third ring. Showtime.

"Hello?"

"_Is this…Robert Singer?_"

Bobby huffed. "Yes, I am _Doctor_ Singer. How can I help you?"

"_Ah, well, Doctor Singer, this is Ted Fleming. A few of your researchers are here talking to us_…"

"Oh, right. The house on Maplewood. You know, I gotta tell ya, I was so happy when the boys got that call about your situation."

"_Happy? Really?_"

"You have no idea how much we needed a solid lead. My boys have been running around, talking to every schizo in the—" Bobby glanced at the North Carolina map he'd laid out on the table, "Triad who says he's had a paranormal experience, and they haven't seen anything. The Board of Regents was this close to terminating our grant!"

"_Really?_" Ted repeated. His tone was shifting from skeptical to interested.

Bobby smirked. _Always add a little desperation to the story. Sells it every time_.

"Oh, yes. So you can imagine, if you have a bona fide ghost on your hands, it'll be a godsend for us. The program could get another two years!"

"_I see_."

_Time to switch it up_. Bobby's tone sobered. "Of course, our problems are nothing like yours, from what the boys told me. You should know that studying these events isn't our only purpose. We also work on methods of prevention."

"_Prevention?_"

"Absolutely. Proving these paranormal events actually happen is great, and fills papers just fine, but our project is also aimed at helping the people who suffer from these phenomena. The purpose of science is to serve mankind, after all." _What a load of liberal, academic crap!_ Bobby shook his head, smiling. He hadn't known he had it in him. The boys were going to owe him after this.

"_Well, that's…good to hear_," Ted replied.

From the tone, Bobby could tell he was leaning toward buying the story. It was time to push him over the edge. "So," Bobby started cheerfully, "let me tell you a little about our program…"

**SPN SPN SPN**

Adam smacked the side of the infrared thermal scanner again but it still wasn't showing anything. He heard Sam chuckle behind him. They were in the second floor study where Annette had told them she and her husband had heard most of the sounds. One side of the room was clear, with the original worn, wood-covered walls. The other was cluttered with a workbench and tools, and a section of exposed studs inside one wall was covered with a blue plastic tarp. The ceiling was the same stucco style as the rest of the house, and strangely marred by wide seams that crossed each other but formed no real pattern.

"Dean sees you abusing the toys like that, _you'll_ be the ghost."

"Not my fault this thing doesn't work," Adam shot back. "I thought you said this would show if there were cold spots in the room?"

"It will."

"Well, I've scanned four rooms and the hall, twice, and it's not showing anything. I can't even get the display to change."

"Are you sure you're using it correctly?"

"Yes!" Adam glared at the device, then back at his smirking brother. "Well, I _think_ so, but it should be showing something."

"Here, let me see it."

Adam stepped over to Sam and handed him the scanner just as Dean came up from the first floor. He called out and waved him into the room. "Hey."

Dean pocketed his notepad as he entered. "Well, the Flemings are gone. They're taking the kid to a movie, then shopping. We have a few hours to ourselves."

"You finish the interviews?" Sam asked, adjusting a dial on the scanner.

"Yup. Everything they said sounds like a legit haunting. They've got noises, cold spots, flickering lights, the whole deal."

"You ask about her husband? Or, her _first_ husband?" Adam asked, frowning when Sam hit the same button Adam had been hitting the whole time, but got the display to start moving on the scanner. "It was luck."

Sam just grinned, handing the scanner back while Dean continued blithely on.

"Yeah, that's the part that makes me think this might be the real thing. Her husband—her first husband—Alex is the one who bought this place. He was trying to fix it up when he supposedly offed himself about a year and a half ago."

Adam shook his head, scanning the room again. "I'm surprised they stayed here."

"Apparently they sank all their money into it. She couldn't have moved even if she wanted to."

"And she's married again already?" Adam asked, looking up from the scan.

"It happens," Sam murmured, searching the wall for something.

"Yeah, well," Dean cut in, propping himself up on an ornate wood desk that looked like it had to weigh a hundred pounds. "That's what makes me think this is legit. Her husband commits suicide, she marries his _brother_ barely a year later, and the brother is now working on the same room where the first hubby died."

"Maybe Alex doesn't like Ted moving in on his wife," Sam mused absently, pulling at the face of an oak panel along the ornate wall.

"Or working in the same room where he died," Dean agreed. He shifted his gaze to Adam. "So, you think we should just dig up Alex's bones? Seems pretty cut and dry."

Adam looked up at him, then at Sam, who was also looking his way. They both wore perfect poker faces. That clued Adam in: he was being tested. With a glance around the room, he bit his lip, then finally shook his head. "No. We don't know for sure yet. We need to rule everything else out first."

Dean grinned, and Sam smiled as he went back to whatever he was doing. Apparently, Adam had passed. Getting his brothers' approval on his first hunt was a bit of a rush, but he wouldn't dare admit that, so he just went back to scanning the room. "So, what made the husband kill himself? The first husband, I mean."

"Annette doesn't know for certain," Dean said, reaching for his notepad again. "She did say that the day it happened, he was acting really strange. Said he seemed obsessed with this remodeling project, and 'depressed that it was taking so long.'"

"Depressed enough to kill himself?" Adam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Apparently, but she says it came out of nowhere. One day he was fine, the next he was agitated."

Adam frowned. "That doesn't seem normal."

"Yeah, and it seemed to come and go. He was obsessing over it in the morning, then fine around lunch, then got upset again…each time it got worse."

"You think there's something to that, or was he just losing his mind?"

"I don't know. What are you so fascinated with, Sammy?" Dean asked, changing the subject. He straightened up and strolled over to the wall.

"This panel… Give me a hand with this," Sam replied, stepping in closer to the wall to let Dean join him.

Together, they pulled on the polished panel. The wood groaned as they put their weight into it, and then swung out with a dull _pop_. There was a hidden compartment behind it.

"What are those?" Dean asked, stepping back.

Adam moved around behind him. Inside the wall were three metal levers, attached to a complex-looking set of bronze gears and pipes that seemed to extend down behind the wall and into the floor.

"No idea," Sam murmured, trying—and failing—to get his head inside the small space next to the levers to peer down. "But it looks like they go down a long way."

Adam shrugged. "Maybe those are controls for a dumbwaiter or something."

"Maybe," Sam replied, pulling out a pad and pencil and sketching a few symbols. "But there are some markings in here, all up and down the walls. I don't know…it seems like I've seen them before."

Dean frowned, crossing his arms. "Well, house looks like Dracula's castle, it's bound to have a few secret passages and crazy machines buried inside. I say we keep our eyes on the ball. Adam? It's your case, what do you think we should do next?"

Adam suddenly felt both his brothers' eyes on him; he didn't like being in the hot seat. "Um, okay. Well, we think the angry spirit might be the husband…but, we need to be sure. I think…we should finish looking at the rest of the house, then talk to the neighbors, maybe the house's last owner, see if anything like this has happened before."

Dean shared a look with Sam, who raised his eyebrows, then nodded and gestured at the scanner in Adam's hand. "All right. That scanner covers a lot of ground, why don't you keep going with that, and Sam and I can sweep for EMF."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Ted was shaking his head again.

Annette turned to him while Ian told the concession stand worker which candy he wanted. "What?"

"Nothing," Ted murmured, staring somewhat blankly at a spot on the theater's menu.

Annette frowned at him. "You've been acting funny ever since we ate. What's going on?"

"It's not— It isn't important."

"Obviously, it is," Annette shot back, paying for Ian's food and Icee. "So, tell me."

Ted was fidgeting more than he had on their first date.

_What's up with him?_

"I—I just hope they finish soon."

"Who?" Annette blinked, then realized what he was talking about. "The guys from Wake?"

"Yes. This is taking so long. I'm losing time."

"Time?"

"On the house! I need to get moving on it. Alex would have wanted that."

"What's the rush? You've been working on it for months already. A few more hours won't hurt."

"Wasted time," Ted muttered quietly. "So much wasted time."

He stepped away, heading toward the attendant who was tearing tickets, shaking his head. Annette just stared after him. She hadn't seen him look so sad since Alex had died.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Even with the three of them splitting up, it was still well after lunch when they finished scanning the enormous house—some four hours after they started. After that, they left, divvying up tasks. Dean was checking with the house's previous owner, a local landlord. Sam had gone to the County Registrar to research the house itself. That left Adam interviewing the neighbors.

After a few hours of gossip, rumors, and slammed doors, he wished he had switched with Sam or Dean. Adam was starting to think his brothers had taken the sweet jobs.

**SPN SPN SPN**

"What address was that again?" the clerk asked with a definite sigh.

He had his back to Sam, flipping through files in a long cabinet. The Registrar's office was nicely adorned, and almost completely deserted, save the clerk and a secretary sitting across the room.

Sam frowned. He'd given the address three times already. "Two-two-oh-six Maplewood."

"And how far back?"

"As far back as you have," Sam replied calmly.

The portly clerk turned to him, frowning over his wire-rimmed glasses and not bothering to hide his obvious boredom. "That'll take at least a few days, sir."

"What?" Sam was incredulous. "You're kidding!"

"There are a lot of files to go through, sir."

Sam stared at him for a moment. "Look…I need this for a very important project for the university. I need to look through those files today. _Please_."

The man stared back, unaffected by Sam's polite explanation. He cocked one eyebrow. "There are a lot of files to go through, sir. And we are _very_ busy."

Sam turned, scanning the completely empty foyer behind him, then turned back to the clerk, who was still staring, one eyebrow higher than the other. It took Sam a moment to decipher the look, though he should have caught it sooner. He'd seen it before.

"I don't believe this," Sam muttered darkly. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, took out a hundred dollar bill, placed it on the counter, and slid it to the clerk.

The clerk eyed the bill. "I'd say it'll still take at least two days, sir."

Sam glowered at him, and slapped a fifty on top of the hundred. The clerk's expression brightened as he casually slid the bills over and into his own pocket. "Why don't you have a seat, sir, I'll be right out."

Sam pinched his lips together and tried to refrain from the response he wanted to give. "_Thank you_."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Adam was walking up the street, back toward the Flemings' when Dean exited a small Colonial house near the intersection.

"Tell Doctor Singer I said hello!" a man called from the door, waving.

Dean grinned. "Will do!"

"Who is that?" Adam asked quietly as Dean fell into step beside him.

"Mark Tulley, the last owner of the house."

"He know anything?"

"A little too much," Dean murmured. "It was like freakin' TRON in there."

Adam looked at him quizzically. "Huh?"

Dean blinked, and seemed to snap out of whatever he was thinking about. "Forget it. He didn't know much. He said the basement was creepy, but never saw anything."

"Sam got an EMF spike in the basement, but I thought you said it was that transformer outside?"

"Might have been." Dean shrugged. "We should probably look again to be sure. What did you find?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "A bunch of grouchy neighbors who keep to themselves." He left out his run-in with a desperate housewife. _The less said about that, the better_.

Dean grunted. "Well, let's get back and check out the basement. Sam should be back soon."

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Dean spoke again. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

His oldest brother was many things, but shy wasn't one of them. Adam frowned. "Sure."

"Has Sam, uh…" Dean looked uncomfortable. "Has he said anything to you? You know, about…stuff?"

Adam just blinked at him for a moment, uncomprehendingly. "Like what?"

Dean glared at him.

Adam cocked his head to the side. "You mean like…Hell?" He wasn't sure why he lowered his voice. They were the only people on the tree-lined street, despite it being a relatively nice day.

Dean nodded, turning his gaze forward and keeping it that way.

Adam frowned. "Well, a little. But not much."

"Mmm." Dean nodded faintly but said nothing else.

"He's pretty much kept it bottled up. I tried talking to him, but…."

Dean looked at him when he trailed off. "But?"

"But…I'm not you," Adam admitted uncomfortably. Glancing at Dean's surprised expression, he added, "For what it's worth, I told him he should. Talk to you, I mean. I think he's being an ass trying to keep it to himself."

"Yeah," Dean chuckled. "You think you get used to that side of Sammy, but you never do."

"Have you talked to him about it? Or about…Lisa?"

Dean's eyebrows rose. "No. No, I wouldn't… He's got a lot on his plate right now. He doesn't need my problems."

Adam shook his head and smirked. _No wonder they argue so much. They're just alike_. "Well, maybe you should. If you open up, he might."

It was Dean's turn to smirk. "I show him mine, he shows me his?"

Adam grinned ruefully. "You're the one who went there, perv."

Dean shoved him lightheartedly into the next mailbox. "Brat."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Sam laid the last of the photocopies from the registrar's office on the small motel room table as he plopped down into one of the chairs. Dean glanced over the pages while Adam watched from the edge of one of the beds.

"Well, I traced the house's owners all the way back to 1950, though obviously it's a lot older than that. There's no record of anything bizarre or out of the ordinary. The earliest owner I could find," Sam flipped through some notes until he found it, "Nicolas Novak, died in 1950. The house stayed in probate for a long time. Novak didn't have kids or any close relatives, and finally the state sold the place at auction. That was…1958."

"Anything strange with the buyers?" Dean asked, looking over a copy of the original deed.

"Nothing. It's been bought a few times, but no one seems to stay in it very long. Few years at most. Finally Mark Tulley bought the lot three years ago, then turned around and sold it to the Flemings a year later."

"Okay, so it sounds like the house is clean, and I take it all the owners except Alex Fleming got out alive?" Adam asked.

Sam nodded. "His is the only death, of any kind, related to the house that I could find."

"So this _is_ just a plain haunting," Adam mused. "And we're sure Fleming committed suicide?"

Dean huffed a laugh. "You're wondering if the wife or pencil-neck brother might have killed him."

Adam shrugged. "It happens. I've seen it on TV."

Sam grinned. "Well, it _does_ happen, but I don't think this was one of those times. I checked out the coroner's report while I was out. Fleming hanged himself, and it was definitely self-inflicted. All the medical reports check out."

"Then we're done," Adam concluded, standing up and pulling his tennis shoes back on. "Salt and burn the bones, and it's Miller time."

Dean grinned at Sam. "Look at this! Kid _has_ been paying attention. You know where Fleming is buried?"

Sam nodded again, sliding over another set of notes and a road map with a faintly smug look on his face. "Yep. Parklawn Memorial Gardens, across town. Southern edge, near a tree grove."

"Don't know why I ask," Dean murmured. "Well, let's tell the Flemings the good news."

Adam paused as he donned his jacket and looked at Dean incredulously. "That we're going to dig up her husband's body and torch it?"

"Maybe not _all_ of the good news."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Dean killed the Impala's headlights once they passed the white brick gateway of the cemetery. The sun had already gone down, and there were no other cars in sight as they followed the winding road to the south side. Only a few lights were scattered among the headstones, illuminating a flag here and a monument there. His baby would blend into the shadows perfectly, invisible to anyone driving on the distant highway. _Like the Batmobile._

The thought made him smile.

Sam must have been reading his mind, because Dean got poked in the ribs as his brother unfolded himself out the door. "Come on, Dark Knight. We got work to do."

"How did you know?"

"I'm psychic," Sam shot back snidely.

"You're just jealous because me being Batman makes you Robin."

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again helplessly.

Dean laughed. "Oh, what's that? No comeback? Because you know it's true?"

"Shut up," Sam griped.

Adam just shook his head as they headed for the trunk.

Dean popped the lid, then raised the false bottom to uncover their supplies. Salt, matches, and accelerant went into the leather satchel Sam held open. Dean distributed sawed-off shotguns to each of them, glancing around. The sounds of his brothers checking the chambers and loading salt rounds melded with the rhythmic sounds of night insects. They were completely alone. He checked his own weapon last then, with Sam, reached for the shovels.

"So," Adam spoke up behind them, "how do you decide who shovels first? Rock, paper, scissors, like everything else?"

Dean kept his face neutral and looked at Sam, who met his gaze steadily. They turned as one and thrust both shovels into Adam's hands.

"I got the bag," Dean said, taking the satchel and stepping away from the car.

"I got the flashlight," Sam called, snagging the Maglite and closing the trunk.

Sam fell into step beside Dean as they headed for the row of graves.

Adam called after them. "Oh, great. This you agree on!"

Dean was glad they were alone. Otherwise, someone would have heard his and Sam's laughter.

"This'll show Bobby who's babying who," Dean muttered defiantly.

"Absolutely," Sam deadpanned quietly while scanning the brass plaque headstones for Fleming's name. The light stopped on a small, squat stone nestled under a maple tree at the edge of the lawn. "Here we go."

He handed the flashlight to Dean, then grabbed one of the shovels from Adam. "All right. I'll help you break the ground, but then you're taking first shift."

**SPN SPN SPN**

"I got…one question," Adam said, breathing hard as he dumped another shovel-load of dirt up onto the grass. He was four feet down into the ground, and despite the cool night air, he was sweating.

"What's that?" Sam asked, keeping the flashlight beam on the dirt under Adam's feet.

Adam paused, panting, and leaned against the edge of the open grave. "Is _this_…hazing?"

Sam looked over at Dean, who glanced between his two brothers. They shrugged in unison.

"No. Absolutely not." Sam shook his head resolutely.

"We don't haze," Dean added, shaking his head in too-quick agreement.

"God, I hate you guys," Adam breathed, rolling his eyes.

Dean handed him a bottle of water. "Look on the bright side."

"What's that?"

"You'll sleep like a log tonight."

Adam sneered at him. "_Thanks_."

"Anytime, bro."

Sighing, Adam went back to work. His shoulders were going to be killing him in the morning. He just hoped Sam gave him a break with the PT. _Yeah, like that's gonna happen_.

It took another half-hour to finally reach Fleming's casket. It was one of the fancy ones with a domed lid, so Dean hopped down into the grave and helped him clear the dirt off to the perimeter. They cleared the entire length of the coffin so they could open both halves.

The body was much like the handful of others Adam had seen since joining up with his brothers. Dry, desiccated flesh draped over stained bones—mildly creepy, but also carrying an odd serenity about it. Sam and Dean had burned half a dozen in the past few months, but this time, Adam felt different. This time, it was _his_ hunt; he wasn't just observing and holding the supplies. He had to admit, it was exciting. Hunting was about as far from college and pre-med as you could get.

"Showtime, big guy." Dean punched Adam's chest lightly, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Sam handed them salt cartons. Dean took the bottom, starting with the feet, Adam started at the skull. He poured the salt as instructed. _Even, cover it all, but you don't have to bury it_.

That task done, he and Dean climbed out of the grave, and Sam used the squeeze bottle to drench the corpse with accelerant. When he was done, he turned and silently handed Adam the box of matches.

Adam took a breath, then removed one of the stick matches and struck it. The flame sprang to life, lighting up all of their faces briefly before settling. When the flame settled, he tossed it down onto Alex Fleming's sternum. "Rest in peace."

The match struck home along Fleming's ribcage, and in seconds the entire body and the fabric casket liner were engulfed in fire.

As he watched the fire spread, he heard his brothers whispering behind him.

"That was nice. Why don't we say things like that?" Dean murmured.

"Because we're jaded?" Sam shot back.

The fire was burning brightly, and for a moment, Adam was elsewhere. He could faintly hear screams in the distance, echoing all around him. He could feel the hooks pulling at his limbs. The pressure was constant, even long after the punctured flesh had gone numb.

A large set of hands gripping his shoulders broke him out of the memory, thankfully. He turned to see Sam behind him, smiling. The taller man's expression was pleased, but with a tinge of wistfulness. Adam could only wonder at what he might be thinking.

"Congratulations, bro. You just finished your first hunt."

"And in one piece," Dean added, clapping Adam on the shoulder blade. "I'm impressed."

Adam's cheeks flushed a little. Thankfully, his brothers probably couldn't see it in the dark. Dean thrust the half-full water bottle back into his hand and grabbed one of the shovels.

"Take a load off. Sam and I will finish up, then it's Miller time!"

While his brothers started shoveling the dirt back into the grave, Adam settled onto a squat headstone a dozen feet away and gulped his water. He felt inordinately pleased with himself. "Hunter" wasn't the same as "M.D." or "Ph.D," but now that he had a successful hunt under his belt, he found he really liked the sound of it.

"Name's Adam. I'm a hunter," Adam said quietly, testing the words. He nodded to himself. "I can get used to that."

"Don't say that too loud, kid," Dean admonished, dumping dirt into the hole. "We tend to get locked up for this kind of work."

Adam laughed. "Geez. You've got bat ears, Dean."

Dean turned and pointed to Sam. "See?"

Sam blew out a put-upon sigh. "Oh, brother…."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the reviews, I'm glad people are enjoying this! On to chapter 3…_

**SPN SPN SPN**

_The Next Night _

Ted looked pleased as the beam he'd been cutting the day before fit perfectly into place along the north wall of the study. Annette watched from the doorway as her husband slid the wood into place, then grinned with pleasure as he reached for a hammer.

"I see you're feeling better," she said softly.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, frowning slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Yesterday you were…well, you were worrying me."

"Really?" His frown deepened. "Oh. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just tired, you know. This two-person construction crew thing we have going really wears me out."

"Maybe we need to get away. Take a vacation."

Ted shrugged. "Sure, maybe. When Ian's school lets out."

Annette nodded as she suppressed a sudden chill, rubbing her shivering arms. "Yeah. If nothing else happens."

She didn't know why, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong. Doctor Stantz had called and told them the problem was fixed, but for some reason, it didn't feel like it. At all.

"I don't know why you're still worrying about it," Ted broke into her thoughts, stepping over to hold her. "Those guys from the university said they've taken care of it. They believed our story _and_ apparently helped us out. We haven't heard a thing all day. I'd say things are looking up."

Annette couldn't help but smile. "I guess so."

"Now," Ted released her, and went back to the work bench, "you want to sand or scrape?"

She laughed. "Neither! I'll go put on dinner."

"Ooh, what are we having?"

"That smoked salmon I found at the market."

"That sounds great!" Ted exclaimed, overcompensating.

She loved him for trying to lighten the mood. "For twenty-four ninety-five a pound, it better be!" she shot back, heading downstairs.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Ian was coloring at the dining room table while she cooked. He was coping as well as any five-year-old, but she knew he missed his father and didn't truly understand why their lives had changed so much. Maybe someday soon she would find a way to explain it all to him.

The fish was nearly done, so she called Ian over while she arranged the plates. "Can you go and get Uncle Ted for Mommy? Dinner's ready."

Ian nodded and bounded up the stairs, as he was prone to doing. Annette set the table.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Ted went back to work after Annette left. He was glad her spirits appeared to be rising. It had been a difficult year for both of them, and for a while she hadn't seemed to be coping well.

He placed another two-by-four on the bench and started measuring. The study was coming along nicely: two of the walls were already redone. Though, the scientists from Wake had found something bizarre behind a loose panel. Ted couldn't tell what the brass levers and pipes did, exactly. It was just another mystery for him to solve.

The air turned frigid while Ted made pencil marks on the new beam.

_Another mystery_. It seemed all the house had were mysteries. And tragedies. _This place has taken my brother, my business…it's tormenting my wife. When will it end?_

Ted dropped the pencil. What was the point? There was always another catastrophe waiting around the corner. Those guys from the university couldn't help with that. _I've put all this work into this house…and it's going nowhere_.

Ted just didn't know why he even tried to move on.

**SPN SPN SPN**

The pasta was almost ready, so Annette moved on to the salads. She had the salad on the table before she realized that it had been several minutes, and Ian wasn't back yet.

"Ian! Ted! Dinner's almost ready!"

_ What's taking them so long? _

She sighed, then wiped her hands and headed upstairs. "Ian? Ted?"

Ian was giggling, and Annette could hear the floor creaking like he was running. She rounded the corner into the study.

"Ted—?" Annette froze.

Ted was hanging from one of the exposed rafters, neck at an unnatural angle, eyes wide but unseeing, his mouth hanging open.

Ian was running back and forth, swinging the body as if he was on a playground, and laughing. "Mommy! Uncle Ted and I are swinging!"

Annette stared at him, then at the body, back and forth, and did the only thing she could think of.

She screamed.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Dean turned away from the television and watched as Sam dropped onto the other bed with a sigh. They'd all woken up late after spending half the night out celebrating Adam's successful hunt. Dean had stayed in, cleaning their weapons, while Sam took Adam out running.

_Poor guy. Sammy's killing him!_

Not that the younger man went willingly. Adam had griped all the way out the door. But Sam was too much like their dad: there was no saying no when he had his tractor beam on you.

Adam took the first shower when they got back, leaving Dean and Sam alone in the room. Sam was using his t-shirt to wipe sweat from his eyes. It was the first time they'd been alone in a few days.

Dean looked at his brother casually while he cleaned the bore on his pearl-handled automatic. "Nice run?"

"Yeah."

"Adam bitch the whole time?"

Sam ran his hand through his hair and chuckled. "The _whole_ six miles…but he'll appreciate it one of these days."

"I wouldn't bank on that," Dean huffed, reassembling the handgun. "So, uh…are you okay?"

Sam glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly. "Yeah…just winded."

Dean stared at him for a long moment. He deliberately kept his tone light. "I, uh, heard you get up last night. Can't imagine any email worth reading at four in the morning."

The expression on his brother's face fell. Sam shifted his gaze to the television and kept it there. "Look…Dean…."

There was no mistaking the reluctance on Sam's face, and the way his mouth was tensing, Dean knew immediately it would be like pulling teeth. He decided to back off. Dean wanted to help, but forcing a confession or revelation out of Sam wouldn't help anything, and might make it worse. "It's okay, Sammy. Just…if you ever want to talk…you know."

Sam glanced at him, finally, and nodded. "I— Just give me a little time. Okay?"

Dean nodded firmly, once. "Sure, man." _Maybe Adam is right_…

A brief, troubled expression crossed Sam's face, but he kept quiet and just stared at the television.

A moment later, Adam emerged from the bathroom, clad in a clean pair of jeans, a towel draped over his shoulders.

Dean smirked. "Well, if it isn't the _Running Man_. Feel better?"

Adam padded barefoot over to his duffel bag, grumbling something barely audible about lazy older brothers, but before Dean could pursue the comment, Sam spoke up.

"Hey, turn the volume up, Dean."

Dean followed Sam's look to the TV, reaching for the remote. The Flemings' house was on the screen, with several emergency vehicles parked in the driveway.

"…_called to this house on Maplewood Ave. Authorities were called when one of the house's owners, Ted Fleming, was found dead in an upstairs room. Mr. Fleming's wife called 9-1-1, but Mr. Fleming was pronounced dead at the scene. A police spokesman tells WXII that there were no signs of foul play, and this appears to be a tragic suicide_."

"What the hell?" Adam had come to stand near Sam's bed. "I thought we got it."

Dean turned the volume down and glanced over grimly. "We missed something."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Sam exited the house and slipped past the two cops chatting near the front door, joining Dean and Adam near the roadside mailbox.

"Just gave that study a quick once-over. EMF is off the charts! Even taking that transformer into account, the readings were way too high. You talk to Mrs. Fleming?"

Dean pointed to where Annette was standing with her son, talking to the police. "For a minute. She's pretty messed up. Said Ted was acting funny yesterday while they were out, but seemed fine today."

"Just like the first husband," Adam added.

"She said the kid found him at dinnertime," Dean continued. "Thought Ted was playing a game. Pretty gruesome."

Adam nodded toward the ambulance. "They said Ted definitely hanged himself. There was nothing to suggest that anyone killed him."

Sam scanned the grounds, noting that the news crew had already pulled out. The paramedics were packing up, and the police wouldn't be far behind. "We need to get in there and go over the house again."

Dean dangled the house keys. "Annette said she's not going back if she can help it. She's staying with a friend for the next few days."

They loitered near the Impala, cautiously stocking two duffel bags with their weapons and supplies, waiting for the authorities to clear out. They were parked a few houses down the street so as not to attract attention.

"Maybe it was a poltergeist instead of a spirit," Adam ventured, packing salt and holy water into one bag.

"Maybe," Dean acknowledged. "Some of the signs are the same, and just because there's no history, it doesn't mean one wasn't attracted to this place when Alex killed himself."

Sam grunted, staring vaguely in the house's direction. Dean nudged him. "Something on your mind?"

"Why wouldn't it attack Annette or Ian, too?" Sam asked, gaze distant. "Why just the husband?"

"Well, Annette said she saw something around the fireplace. Maybe it just didn't have a chance to get her."

"Mmm. Maybe." Sam didn't sound convinced. "Hey, last cops leaving."

Dean double-checked their duffels, then closed the trunk. "All right. Let's go. Keep your eyes open."

They walked nonchalantly up the street, and crossed into the Flemings' yard. After a careful look around the premises, Dean unlocked the front door and they slipped inside.

**SPN SPN SPN**

The second floor study seemed the best place to start. Both Alex and Ted had hanged themselves from the exposed ceiling rafters—almost in the exact same spot, right in front of the wall panel concealing the odd levers Sam had discovered.

Sam pulled the sawhorse over and climbed up to get a better look at the rafters. The beams themselves didn't appear special. Angling the flashlight upward, he peered into the dusty gloom above the ceiling panels.

"They were collecting more than dust," Sam called down. "There's ectoplasm up here. A lot of it. Dripping down the support beams."

"Ectoplasm?" Adam incredulously asked from below. "Like _ghost_ slime? From the movies?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, trying in vain to peek past Sam's bulky frame to see for himself. "It's real. But it only manifests when you have a seriously powerful spirit."

"Or a really pissed off one," Sam added from above.

"We've only seen it two or three times in our lives," Dean finished.

"Hey," Sam pulled the flashlight back, holding the rafters to steady himself while he climbed down, "didn't Annette say she saw a spirit in the fireplace? I'll bet we find some dried up slime down there."

He looked around the study for a moment, then walked over to where Ted had been working. The plastic tarp was bundled up in the corner, leaving a clear view of the exposed space behind the walls. More ectoplasm stained the newer studs Ted had been building. Deeper inside, though, Sam saw something else.

"More of those symbols. Like on those levers."

"You still think you've seen them somewhere?" Adam asked, peering into the mass of brass piping Sam found.

"Somewhere…" Sam twisted his neck to look beyond the remaining wall panels. "They go up. Toward the third floor, looks like."

"What's above this room?" Dean asked, glancing at the ceiling.

**SPN SPN SPN**

The third floor was more deteriorated than the first two. Annette had told them that very little work had been done because the wiring needed to be replaced. They moved through the dusty hallway until they found a spot almost directly over the study. The entrance to the room had been closed off with a plaster wall long before.

Sam shone his flashlight along the discolored plaster surface. They'd passed the wall during their first scan of the house, but Ted probably wouldn't have appreciated them breaking into it, so they'd left it. "Someone didn't want anyone going in there. What do you think it was?"

Adam was closest to the wall, and was pulling a plastic cover off a square hole in the wood near the edge of the plaster. He looked inside. "Looks like they cut this to get to the wiring. It goes all the way through…I don't know. Might be another study, or a library maybe. There are covers over everything."

"We should find a way inside," Sam said, shining his flashlight down the hallway, looking for another entrance.

"I think I can handle that," Dean replied with a smirk.

He turned and descended the stairs, returned a minute later. Sam's eyebrows rose when he saw what Dean returned with.

"I think these'll help." Dean handed one of the sledgehammers to Sam.

Sam handed his light off to Adam, then set to work. Within a few minutes, they'd opened a hole large enough to pass through. Next, though, they found that the door to the room had also been covered in plywood.

"Someone _really_ didn't want anyone going in there," Sam noted, bemused.

The sledgehammers made short work of the rotten wood, and they were through.

The room was clearly a library. Tall bookcases lined the walls on either side. A small table with chairs sat in front of the entranceway, and farther back, before a boarded-up window, sat a huge desk. Everything was carefully covered over with heavy canvas sheets. When they pulled the nearest sheet off, the table beneath was perfectly clean.

Within a matter of moments, Dean and Sam had all the canvas covers removed, and were searching the shelves while Adam searched the desk.

Sam whistled softly. "_Look_ at this stuff…" he said, more than a hint of fascination in his voice. "Almost all of these books date back to the 1800s. I've only seen one so far that was written after 1900."

"Glad to see your inner geek is as healthy as ever," Dean shot back, shining his flashlight on the shelves as he moved. "Is it just me, or are all of these grimoires and demonology books?"

"I think so," Sam replied. "Old ones. _Dangerous_ ones." He came to the end of one shelf and ran his light over the wooden side. Another symbol was carved into the wood, a chalice shape with a semicircle inside. A bar crossed the stem of the chalice, forming a small cross. "Hey, Dean? Over here."

Dean joined him, shining his light in the same area. "What is that?"

"The symbol for Pluto," Sam answered, studying the carving.

"Not the dog, I'm assuming."

Sam chuckled. "No. The mythological Pluto. King of the Underworld, according to some myths. In astrology, it's associated with death and rebirth, world events, like the rise and fall of empires and stuff like that."

Dean nodded. "Comforting."

"Hey, check this out," Adam called from behind the huge desk. He was flipping through a leather-bound book that resembled their father's journal. "This is the journal of Nicolas Shandor. Hey, Sam, didn't you say the first owner of this place was a Nicolas?"

Sam glanced over at him from the book shelves. "Yeah. Novak was his last name, though."

Adam was reading the last page of the journal and frowning. "Um, I don't think so. Listen to this. 'I have done all I can. Father's legacy permeates this place, but with him dead, the beast cannot awaken. I would burn the house as well, but I do not know what the result would be. It might well release it, and that is too dangerous.

'I tried to burn the books, but Father protected them somehow. I decided instead to leave them here. Someone with more experience may be able to use them to undo what Father tried to set into motion.

'I changed everything over to Mother's name. I have come to believe the Shandor line is cursed by the darkness Father and his friends harnessed. With luck, no one will ever find out.'"

Adam checked the previous page and pointed to the header. "January 31, 1930."

Sam had moved to read along over Adam's shoulder. He pursed his lips as he considered the evidence, then reached for his duffel and brought out his photocopies from the records office. "That…actually might answer some questions. The deed for the house looked fishy to me. I thought at first it had just deteriorated with age, but the paper looked weird on the line where Nicolas Novak's name was printed."

"So?" Dean asked from across the room. He had moved from the shelves and was scanning the ceiling with his flashlight.

"So," Sam continued, "maybe the paper wasn't damaged. Maybe the names had been _changed_. Nicolas might not have been the original owner of this house."

"Changed by who? Nicolas?" Adam asked.

"Sure. Look at this house. The family obviously had money. They could grease a few palms in the records office just as easily back then as they can now. Maybe easier."

Adam considered that, then frowned. "Why?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe the father was interested in things that embarrassed the family. I mean, check out these books. Looks like he was into everything: alchemy, sorcery, necromancy… You name it, he's got a book on it."

Dean was still staring upward. "So, little Nicky and the rest of the family don't like what Dad is into, so they change the names, pay off the records clerks, and seal all the dad's stuff up in here and hope no one finds it."

"From the look of that wall, no one did," Adam said, gesturing toward the door. "Until now."

Sam noticed that Dean was still looking up. He followed his brother's gaze, tilting his head to examine the ceiling. More of the brass pipes and conduits ran along the ceiling, following along what appeared to be a seam in the stucco. "Dean? What is it?"

Dean grunted. "I don't know. Does that look weird to you?"

"What, the seam?"

"Yeah. It doesn't line up with the room. See? It comes across at an angle, away from the line of the walls. The pipes follow it. More of those same symbols, too."

Sam was looking, but his eyes zeroed in on something else. "Dean, over toward the wall. Those are different. I _know_ I've seen those symbols before."

Dean shifted his light to where Sam was focused. He recognized the new symbols, too. "Wait, aren't those—?"

"Yeah," Sam said grimly. "That's exactly what they are."

Adam stood from the desk and moved to Sam's side. "What?"

"They're from the Key of Solomon." A shiver moved up his spine. "We need to go to a library."

"Let's try the university. They're probably open all night," Dean suggested.

"Yeah." Sam nodded, staring at the symbols painted above them. "And we need to see if the plans for this house still exist. I've got a really bad feeling about this."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Adam and Sam stopped off at the Wake Forest library while Dean headed to the county records department. They set up shop in a private study room in a quiet, deserted corner of the book stacks.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Adam asked. He hadn't quite picked up on the silent language his brothers excelled at. The connection between the house and the odd symbols eluded him.

"Answers," Sam replied cryptically, a coy smile tugging at his mouth. "Adam, I need you to have a seat and go through Nicolas' journal page by page. See if you can find any details about what his father was up to, and what Nicolas wanted to hide."

"Where are you going?"

"To test a theory. I'll be back. If Dean calls, tell him where we are."

Sam was out the door before Adam replied, "O-okay. I'll just…be here."

His brother was in full geek mode tonight. Adam chuckled and started reading the journal from the beginning.

It wasn't the most scintillating read Adam had ever tried. The writing style was stilted and Nicolas' command of English was…questionable. Most of the entries pertained to early adolescence, and barely mentioned the father at all. Apparently, Nicolas was closer to his mother. Adam paused about three quarters of the way through.

_That's interesting_. The father was mentioned much more frequently after Nicolas turned eighteen. So were the father's friends. Adam started taking notes.

Sam returned about an hour later with a stack of copies.

Adam looked up as his brother entered. "Find anything?"

"Yeah." Sam looked grim. "A lot. You?"

Adam tapped the journal in his hands. "Nicolas has some choice words for dear old dad starting on page fifty."

Sam nodded at the journal. "Starting about 1920, I bet."

Before Adam could ask about that, Sam's cell rang. From the way Sam spoke, it was obviously Dean. "Yeah, second floor. All the way back by the water fountain. Yeah."

Dean arrived about two minutes later, carrying a large rolled up sheet of paper. "Found the blueprints for the Flemings' house."

Adam frowned and checked his watch. It was 12:35. "The…records office was still open?"

Both his brothers paused at that.

Dean looked at Adam like he was crazy. "No. Of course not. What kind of question is that?"

Blushing, Adam scolded himself. "Sorry. Stupid question. I'm just— Forget it."

Dean smirked at him, then unrolled the blueprints on the table.

Adam whistled appreciatively. The house was a lot more complex than it looked. There were extra spaces between the rooms, a few sets of stairs that weren't even visible, and what looked like an extremely overdesigned plumbing system. "This is…"

"Wild, right?" Dean filled in. "I joked about Dracula's castle, but I had no idea."

Sam spread his notes onto the tabletop. "That fits with everything I dug up. Nicolas' father's name was Gyula Shandor. He was an architect around the turn of the century. Old money, immigrated here from Europe. He designed a lot of buildings back in the 1800s, but almost all of them have been torn down. Too complicated. Maintenance nightmares. All except this house."

"The Flemings'," Adam said.

"Right. This house was his masterpiece. From what I read, he drove the construction crews crazy, only showed them sections of the plans, never the whole thing. Switched out crews after every section was finished. Real nut job. It was only finished after twenty years. He nearly blew the family fortune doing it."

Adam pointed to the journal. "As far as Nicolas could tell, Shandor and his friends had been designing it since before he was born."

"What friends?" Dean asked.

Sam pointed to the corner of the blueprint sheet. There was a small symbol, a square and compass together.

Dean blinked. "Isn't that the sign of the Freemasons?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed. "Shandor joined up back in Europe, and a lot of the members of his group came over the same year he did. There were about twenty-five of them altogether. All about the same age."

Dean considered that. "The Freemasons… Wasn't there a rumor about them worshipping the devil?"

"There was. In the late 1890s, a couple of Christian evangelicals accused the Freemasons of worshipping Baphomet, which is another name for Lucifer. But it was exposed as a hoax. A man named Levi drew up a newspaper cartoon to go with the article." Sam produced an old drawing. In it, men in robes carried a throne bearing a goat with human arms, great horns, and black wings. An inverted pentagram was drawn on the goat's head.

"That's the Tarot card image of Satan," Dean said, frowning.

Sam nodded. "Apparently the accusing newspaper article is the original source of the Tarot image, and Satanists still use it to this day. But the Freemasons proved the whole thing to be false. The evangelicals were lying. That's where it would have ended, except for this." He produced a printout. "Shortly after the hoax was made public, a small group of Freemasons were ostracized from the organization. They fled Europe before anyone could question them. About twenty-six men."

"Shandor and his buddies?"

Sam nodded.

Dean held up the old drawing. "So, you think Shandor's group of Freemasons actually did worship the devil?"

"A splinter sect," Sam corrected. "And probably not the actual Devil. There are other sources that say Baphomet was just a demon. A powerful one, but not Lucifer himself."

Adam noticed the subtle way Sam cringed when he talked about Lucifer. He covered it well, but it was obvious the mere mention of the name reminded him of things he didn't want to think about.

Adam couldn't blame him, but he could give Sam a moment to regroup. "Nicolas' journal mentioned that his father and his friends were always locking themselves away. Nicolas heard chanting and a lot of Latin being spoken. When they were done, they would all leave, and he'd find candles, leaves, weird-looking oils—"

"Summoning rituals," Dean interrupted. "Bastards were summoning the thing."

"That would explain that library. Demonology, black magic, astrology. Shandor was neck deep in the stuff," Sam said. He looked slightly more relaxed, scratching idly at the back of his neck.

"Okay, so why the house fetish?" Dean muttered, studying the plans while his brothers spoke.

"Apparently, he was obsessed," Sam explained. "According to some of the witnesses, Shandor was manic-depressive. He'd be fine one day and almost suicidal the next. Whenever there was a delay on the house, he'd just lose it."

Dean took that in. "Fine one day, suicidal the next. That sound familiar?"

It didn't take long to click. Adam snapped his fingers. "Ted and Alex Fleming. Annette said they both were acting like that. Obsessing over the renovation."

"The spirit haunting that house was never Alex Fleming," Sam cut in, looking at Dean. "I think it was Shandor all along. Annette told you this all started when Alex was working in the basement."

"The basement." Adam frowned, then checked his notes. "Nicolas wrote something… Here it is. One entry, dated December 1929. 'When I arrived downstairs, the others were already dead, but I believe I stopped him in time. May God forgive me. Only three survived.' That's all. Just three lines."

"Gyula Shandor disappeared in late 1929. Nobody saw him or his Freemason sect again. The police gave up the search, and Nicolas inherited everything."

"You think Nicky killed his dad?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Or _stopped_ him." Sam held up his cell. "I sent this drawing to Bobby. According to one of his books, Baphomet is an old demon, and _powerful_. Bobby said there were stories of him going all the way back to the Crusades. But he can only return to Earth with a massive sacrifice. Forty souls—forty _men_—and they have to give their souls up willingly."

"Well, that explains why it didn't kill Annette or the kid, but why forty?" Adam asked.

"Biblical numerology. The Noah's Ark story? It rained for forty days. The number means death," Dean interjected.

"Demons really care about that stuff?"

Dean shrugged. "Honestly? Sometimes I think they're just screwing with us."

"_Anyway_," Sam pointed at the journal, "it says 'the others were already dead.' Maybe they were trying to summon this thing and Nicolas prevented them from finishing it."

Adam frowned. "If it takes forty sacrifices, and there were only twenty-six men in this cult…."

"They'd need more," Dean agreed. "Where'd they find 'em?"

Sam sat and pulled the laptop out of his duffel. "Let's find out."

**SPN SPN SPN**

It didn't take long to put the pieces together. Sam turned the laptop so the others could see. "Missing persons reports. Shandor finished his house in 1925. Between 1928 and 1929, fifteen people went missing in the neighborhoods surrounding this one. None of them turned up again."

"Twenty-five and fifteen." Adam nodded. "That would do it."

Dean held up his hand. "The police didn't notice all these disappearances in one area?"

Sam shrugged. "It was the twenties. Prohibition was on, and there was a big smuggling problem in this area. A lot of the men who disappeared were thought to be rumrunners, and the police just assumed the worst and wrote them off."

"All right. These Freemasons all off themselves, but what about the other fifteen? I doubt they'd kill themselves willingly."

"They might not have to," Sam pointed out. "You saw all those black magic tomes. Hex bags, spells, it wouldn't be hard for Shandor to force those men into committing suicide. So long as they chose to die, it probably didn't matter why."

"Leaving Shandor."

"Probably as the vessel," Sam said. "Most demons need a host when they come topside."

There was an awkward pause as they all fell silent. They had experience with the vessel thing, and it wasn't particularly pleasant to think about.

Adam crossed his arms, shaking himself out of his thoughts. "Well, three of them escaped, thanks to Nicolas, and he killed Shandor, so the demon never got his forty."

Dean didn't look pleased. "It's getting close, though." At Adam's perplexed look, he explained. "Alex disturbs Shandor's spirit when he starts re-flooring the basement. Next thing we know, he's killing himself. Ted moves in after everything's settled down, and when he picks up in the parts of the house where his brother left off, suddenly he kills himself. Two men who want to die…two willing sacrifices. Shandor's trying to finish what he started."

"That means he only needs one more sacrifice," Adam said. "Then what? The demon gets out of Hell?"

Dean looked at Sam, but his younger brother didn't seem to be paying attention. Sam was staring at the blueprints of the house. "Sam?"

"Maybe it's already out."

Adam blinked. "What do you mean?"

Sam didn't answer immediately, just stood and stared at the blueprints, turning the paper and cocking his head to the side like he was trying to see something. He picked up the sheet and held it out, backward, to Dean. "Can you…hold this up to the light for me?"

He went to pick up a marker from his duffel while Dean held the house plans up at an angle. Sam walked back and stared at the blueprints from the other side, biting his lip for a moment. Then he started drawing on the back with the marker.

"Uh, Sam?" Dean tried to see his brother's face around the large sheet. "You're doodling on city property."

"Says the guy who robbed the records office," Adam chided.

"Shut up."

Sam drew some more, then stepped back, shaking his head. "This is…insane."

"What?" Dean asked, peeking over the sheet to see what Sam had drawn.

Before he caught a glimpse, Sam grabbed the blueprints and laid them out on the table. He drew X's in the rooms where they had been. "See here? We saw those symbols here and here, and those seams in the ceilings?"

Adam stood to look with them. "You mentioned those symbols earlier, why?"

Dean glanced up at him. "They're the symbols from a devil's trap. Just by themselves."

Adam thought back. He had learned to draw the traps, but hadn't recognized the symbols out of context. "So, why would Shandor draw them in the house like this? There's no circle, no pentagram…."

"Yes, there is," Sam corrected him grimly. He flipped the blueprints over, revealing what he'd drawn. It was a massive devil's trap, running all the way through the house, with separate sections on each floor joining with the ones above and below. "The lines running along the ceiling in every room? I think it was all part of a complicated devil's trap. A _physical_ one. The house itself is a trap."

Dean tilted his head, looking at the drawing. "Well, if you're right, it looks like the center is in the basement. Where Shandor was doing his ritual…and where Alex was working when all this started. But why summon this demon if you're just going to trap it?"

He didn't get a response. Adam looked up, and Sam was staring at the table, not even blinking.

Dean shot Adam a questioning look, then touched Sam's shoulder. "Hey. Sam?"

Sam started, glancing at Dean as though he'd forgotten he was there. "Hmm?"

"You okay?" Dean asked quietly.

From the look on his face, he knew what had happened, but Sam didn't meet his gaze directly. "I'm—I'm fine. Sorry." He splayed his hands helplessly. "Um, I don't know, the uh, disappearances happened over the course of a year. Maybe this cult needed to keep the demon close until they finished all the sacrifices. However it was supposed to work, I think that thing has been down there this whole time, waiting to get out."

Adam frowned to himself. At least that episode had been brief. He looked back at his brothers. "We've got to stop Shandor before he finds another victim."

"And before he…" Dean trailed off, staring down at the blueprints again. He reached over and flipped the sheet back to the house plans. "…lets that thing loose." Pointing to the plans, he looked back up. "I think I get it. All those brass pipes and levers. I bet they somehow open the trap, er, the _house_, to let the demon out."

"You mean the whole house would move?" Adam asked.

Sam nodded, following where Dean pointed. "Maybe. The pipes run all through it. That's probably why he didn't let the builders see all the designs. He didn't want them to know how it all worked."

Dean started packing their duffels. "Either way, we need to get this thing, tonight. Before it kills anyone else."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**_Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. I truly appreciate it. On to chapter 4!_**

**SPN SPN SPN**

**Chapter 4**

It was close to two in the morning when they returned to the house. Nicolas Shandor had tried to cover up his father's misdeeds, so it was likely that he had left his father's body in the house. Finding it quickly was the only issue—and they had yet to agree on where to start.

Adam was constantly surprised at how often his brothers argued. The tiniest thing could set them off. It wasn't spiteful—not always, anyway—but it was often loud and occasionally frightening. Sometimes, all it took was a choice between two places.

The ride from the library to the house had been interminable.

"Study," Dean said with an obstinate shake of his head.

"I think he'll be in the basement," Sam stated with conviction.

Dean was still shaking his head.

"Dean…that seems logical," Adam added somewhat meekly. He didn't like getting between his brothers when they argued. It was a dangerous place to be. "Nicolas killed him there, and I can't really see him dragging his dead father through the house."

"Yeah, because that'd be weird, especially after _murdering_ him with your own two hands," Dean scoffed. "The spirit attacked Alex and Ted in the study!" He threw the Impala into Park in front of the house, and jumped out.

Sam followed, bit firmly in his teeth. "Dean, just because it attacked in the study doesn't mean its remains are in the study."

"But they _could_ be," Dean insisted, opening the trunk.

Sam blew out a frustrated breath. "Yes. They _could_ be a _lot_ of places."

"Which only supports my original point," Dean seethed. "We should split up!"

Sam rolled his eyes as he grabbed one of their duffels out of the trunk and yanked it open. "Yeah, because _that's_ a plan that we've never regretted!"

"If we hit the study and the basement at the same time, we have a better chance of stopping this thing before it catches on to what we're doing." Dean loaded salt rounds into his shotgun and snapped the chamber closed angrily.

"And we have a much better chance of getting cut off from each other when this thing gets mad!"

"Damn it, Sam!"

"Dean!"

_God, it's like they're children!_ "Hey! Guys!" Adam stepped in, holding his hands up to silence them. "Can we save the energy for the bad guy? Let's just step back and talk about this like rational people."

Dean and Sam looked at each other, then went back to packing their gear.

"Geez, it was a simple difference of opinion…"

"Who died and made him boss?" Dean groused.

Adam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need a drink."

"Not until we're off work, kiddo," Dean retorted teasingly. He hefted one of the three bags toward Adam. "Here, make yourself useful."

Sam frowned as he loaded his shotgun. "We still need to work out a plan of attack here."

Dean grimaced, looking as though he'd swallowed some of the salt he was packing into the bags. "I…agree that the basement is the most likely place to start."

"Thank you." Sam nodded respectfully.

"But—"

"Of course…."

Dean ignored the remark. "Even if you're right—and you might be—I'd still like to dismantle those levers in the study. We don't want this trap opening up on us while we're tied up downstairs. Shandor obviously gets around. If we hit both rooms at once, one of us can keep him occupied while the other trashes the levers, or burns the bones, whichever."

Sam stewed over Dean's words for a few moments, then deflated a little. Obviously, he agreed with the logic. "So, who goes to the study while the others dig?"

"Me," Dean said, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

"Why you?"

"'Cause I'm the oldest."

Sam snorted. "That's not good enough."

"Okay, because I'm the fastest. I can bust the levers then run down to the basement."

"You are _not_ the fastest."

"I am so."

"No, you're not!"

Dean sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. "_Sam_."

Something in his voice made Sam relent. He stared for a moment, then spoke quietly. "What?"

"Look," Dean said with a pained expression. Whatever was coming was likely to be harsh. "I'm not blind, Sammy. I've seen it. You've been going in and out. I get it. I'm no stranger to flashbacks, believe me."

Sam shrank back a little. Adam couldn't see all of his face, but he didn't need to in order to know that Sam was likely hurt.

Dean saw it, too. "Sammy, I trust you." He glanced at Adam. "_Both_ of you. But if you zone out and Shandor comes after you… It's too dangerous. And Adam's still got on training wheels—"

"Hey!"

"No offense, dude."

Adam scowled, but held his tongue. His pride wasn't the issue at the moment.

Sam glanced at him, eyes looking a bit haunted, but then he looked back to Dean and nodded. "Okay. Adam and I'll cover the basement. You check the study and break the gears, but then you come right down!"

Dean smiled faintly. "You're the boss."

They each slung one of the heavy bags over their shoulders and moved to the house. After double-checking to make sure no one was watching them, Dean produced Annette's keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door. Adam heard him laugh softly as the lock clicked open.

"What's so funny?" Sam asked grumpily.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at them, mirth in his eyes. "I was just thinking. We tried so hard to avoid anything involving angels, demons, and Hell…and look what we walked into…."

Sam's grim façade cracked a bit, a smile pulling at his mouth. "Yeah."

"This your usual amount of luck?" Adam asked, shifting the cumbersome leather duffel on his shoulder.

Sam looked at him, shrugging. "You get used to it."

Dean pushed the heavy door open and ushered them through. They'd left the lights on, so the interior was navigable, yet still encumbered with inky shadows. Sam led the way down the main hall, shotgun at the ready.

They reached the stairwell unchallenged, but Adam still felt uneasy. If Shandor's spirit was as powerful as Dean and Sam thought it was, they might have a fight on their hands. He tried to push such thoughts aside. His brothers had made it out of worse situations, after all. _Just focus on the job_.

Dean stepped away as they hit the stairs. Sam hesitated, and looked like he wanted to argue, but Dean spoke before he could. "I'll be down as soon as I can. If it takes longer than five minutes, I'll call you."

Sam stared at him a moment, and Adam watched him visibly fighting the urge to argue again. Instead, Sam nodded once. "Don't take too long. I don't want to do all the shoveling."

He headed down the stairs. Adam moved to follow, but Dean caught his elbow, face deadly serious. "Watch his back."

Adam glanced after Sam, then met Dean's gaze unflinchingly. He didn't need the instruction for that. "You watch yours."

Dean flashed his most roguish grin. "Hey, it's _me_."

He jogged up the steps without another word. Adam turned and started the descent, catching up to Sam.

**SPN SPN SPN**

The basement hadn't been among Adam's assigned rooms to scan earlier, so its appearance surprised him. Centered directly below the house, the area spanned more than half the length of the floors above. With a few half-walls knocked out, a full hockey rink wouldn't have been out of the question.

Beams and piping along the ceiling ran in several directions, following gaps in the ceiling panels rather than the walls. The result was a crisscrossing mass of wood and metal that would have given any renovator nightmares. Knowing what they did about the devil's trap, it made some sense. If Dean and Sam were right, and the house did somehow _move_, then the ceiling design would fit.

The floor was mostly concrete, except for a narrow stretch of timbers along each wall. To Adam, it looked like a low viewing gallery, built up a few inches from the expanse of concrete. Along the south side, several of the old wood planks had been pried up—probably when Alex Fleming had started working down there.

It was that area that Sam pointed his flashlight toward. "Over there. Shandor's body should be nearby if this is where Alex disturbed him."

Adam smirked. "Unless Dean's right about where the remains are."

Sam looked at him for a moment, then started moving toward the pile of displaced boards. "I'm thinking about switching to a longer run. _Eight_ miles. Think it might be good for us."

"Hey," Adam held out his hands in surrender, "no need to wave a stick, Sam. Of course, you're right and Dean's wrong."

"Just so we're on the same page."

Adam wisely kept his chuckle silent and followed Sam across the room.

Sam dropped his duffel first and reached inside for a carton of salt. "Lay out a ring, big. I don't want Shandor coming at us from behind when we start digging."

Grabbing his own carton of salt, Adam went to work. Laying out a salt line large enough to encompass them—but still allow them to work—meant thin lines, but it was better than nothing. After a few moments, they had a wide semi-circle around them, with salt along the wall to close them inside it.

"The bones should be close-by, if Alex managed to disturbed them," Sam muttered, scanning the floor with his flashlight.

"What about the EMF? Would the bones set it off? We could use it like a metal detector."

Sam shook his head. "We could try, but I doubt it. Dean's right, that transformer outside screws with all the readings."

They searched quietly for a few minutes. The concrete wasn't disturbed, so both men focused on the area around and below the wood planks.

After several minutes of searching, Sam called out, "Here. I think this is it."

Adam stepped over, having to get down on all fours to see what Sam was illuminating with his light. Underneath a section of planks right at the edge of their salt line was a distinct patch of gravel and small stones that didn't match the dirt nearby. "Looks like Nicolas covered up his work."

"Get the crowbars," Sam instructed, pocketing his flashlight and retrieving a small work lantern from his duffel.

Adam complied, returning with the tools. They got to work ripping up the flooring.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Dean lined the door and windows of the study with salt before dropping his duffel on the sawhorse. _Don't want any old demon worshippers sneaking up on me_.

He popped off the wood panel that concealed the brass levers, noticing with some trepidation that streams of gooey ectoplasm were still dripping down the walls inside the compartment. Shandor's ghost was still active somewhere in the house.

"Here's hoping Sammy wasn't right about splitting up…" Dean murmured to himself, grabbing a hammer from the nearby workbench. With any luck, he'd be done in no time.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Sam grunted as he attempted to pry another board loose. Despite their apparent age, the flooring was well-built, and the wood was still fairly resilient. Adam groaned as he popped another free, and he carefully lifted it and tossed it into the existing debris pile. They were careful not to break the salt line as they worked.

They broke through after several minutes, and Sam traded the crowbar for a shovel. Despite the difference in appearance, the patch of gravel and dirt was packed just as tightly as the rest of the ground. Adam grabbed his shovel.

Once they broke ground, the digging went quickly. They soon found themselves in a matching rhythm. With any luck, Dean would be joining them soon.

**SPN SPN SPN**

"Yeah, working on it, Sam," Dean said into the phone, prying at the brass fixtures one-handed. "You find the remains yet?"

"_Maybe. We're digging now. Hurry up and get down here_."

Dean snorted. "I'd work faster with two hands, Sammy."

Sam grumbled, but ended the call and let him get back to work.

The levers were much sturdier than they looked. Dean had tried prying the handles off, breaking the piping around them, even attacking the hinges, but he couldn't make a dent.

The sudden drop in temperature wasn't helping. His fingers were growing numb and fast becoming useless.

It was hard for Dean not to compare the predicament to his own life. He'd tried so hard to keep Sammy out of trouble, fought for so many years, and yet in the end, his little brother had had a promising life ripped from his grasp, the love of his life murdered, and had been set on course to free the Devil himself.

Falling into the deepest depths of Hell with Lucifer and an angry archangel was just icing on the hellish cake.

Then there was his other little brother. Poor kid had been a well-adjusted pre-med student, whose only fault was having John Winchester as a father. Adam hadn't had anything to do with hunting—hadn't even known about John's real job or how his parents had met—but that didn't save him when that pair of vengeful ghouls found him.

Being eaten alive was bad enough, but then to be resurrected by angels and forced to be Michael's vessel, all because Dean had said no… Dean knew he was directly responsible for Adam's situation, for that kid falling into Hell with Sam.

_My fault. My failure_.

Dean stopped trying to break the levers, stepping back from the wood panels. What was the point anyway? He was failing that very second. He was supposed to be making sure his brothers were safe and he couldn't even accomplish that…

**SPN SPN SPN**

"I think we hit pay dirt."

"You and Dean should have made a bet," Adam remarked.

Sam had been right; the remains were there. Even shoveling together, it took time to uncover some of the bones, and a few ribs. Adam was just happy the hard part was almost over. Shandor was right where his son had buried him. A while longer and they were home free.

They continued moving dirt out of the way, careful not to move any of the remains. Fortunately, Shandor's clothing was intact, so it was relatively easy to keep the bones together.

_A little too easy_. Adam glanced around the otherwise empty basement. They were uncovering the remains of a powerful spirit that had killed twice in that very house…and they hadn't seen or heard anything.

"How long's it been since Dean checked in?" Sam asked. From the look on his face, perhaps he was feeling the same way as Adam.

Adam checked his watch. "About five minutes, I think. Maybe ten."

Not acknowledging, Sam went back to work, frown lines creasing his forehead.

"I guess Shandor found the perfect targets with the Flemings. Alex lost his shirt with the housing bubble, Ted lost his brother…." Adam mentioned, returning to the previous conversation in the hopes of distracting both of them from worry.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I gue—"

When he broke off, Adam glanced up at him. "What?"

Pulling out his cell phone, Sam looked at Adam grimly while he dialed. "I've got a bad feeling…"

When the call wasn't answered, Sam's worry lines deepened.

"_This is Dean, leave a message_."

Sam tried the call again, but got no answer. He shook his head, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "I don't like this."

Adam paused and turned to him. He almost suggested calling again, but Sam was right. Dean wouldn't be ignoring his phone, not in a situation like the one they were in. He watched Sam grab one of the shotguns and head for the stairs.

"Keep digging, I'll be right back." Sam was already taking the steps two at a time, but called over his shoulder. "Stay inside that salt circle!"

Adam couldn't help but roll his eyes, pausing long enough to give a mock-salute. His brothers could be insufferably _bossy_ sometimes, though he knew they meant well. He went back to digging, casting a wary glance around the room. The sooner the hunt was over, the better he would feel.

**SPN SPN SPN**

The more Dean thought about it, the more he realized how badly he'd ruined his relationship with Lisa.

However difficult the months after Sam's second death had been, Dean knew he was building something with her. He had looked at raising her son Ben as his own, maybe even fixing some of the mistakes he'd made when Sam was that age. It would have been different. He wasn't standing in for John the way he'd been with Sammy.

He'd had a job, a permanent address, a _life_…ironically the one Sam had chased for so long.

Looking back, Dean realized he should have known it was a pipe dream. As soon as Sam and Adam reappeared on his doorstep—Lisa's doorstep—he should have seen the split coming. His brothers, intentionally or not, had brought the hunting world with them, right back to Dean. Two lives that were incompatible.

Lisa's final words were right. Dean was bad news, and he should never have pretended otherwise.

Turning slowly in place, Dean cast a morose gaze around the study. He was a total failure. At life. At fatherhood. At brotherhood. Maybe it would be better if…

Dean's eyes landed on the sawhorse Sam had climbed on earlier. Alex and Ted had the right idea. The world had no mercy for losers. _That's what I am. A loser_.

Well, that was one problem Dean could fix. He walked to the sawhorse and dragged it over in front of the hidden panel. Some of the rope Ted had used to kill himself was still on the floor, more than enough to make another noose. Dean tied it quickly and tossed it up over the exposed rafters, tying the loose end around one of the wall beams.

Stepping up onto the sawhorse, Dean reached for the noose. One step and his miserable existence could finally be over.

The sound of shouting and a shotgun blast startled him, and he tipped forward as he lost his balance.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Sam jogged down the hallway on the second floor and came around the corner just in time to see Dean pulling the noose toward his head.

"_Dean!_"

A shimmering, translucent mist was wrapped around his brother, flowing out from the hidden compartment in the wall. It became more opaque at the sound of Sam's voice, and he saw a grotesque face forming behind Dean's head.

Sam shot forward, bringing his sawed-off up and firing into the space between Dean and the wall. The salt pellets blasted through the wispy tendrils and a high-pitched wail filled the room.

Dean flinched as the tentacle-like mist suddenly dissipated, glazed eyes shifting in Sam's direction, but the motion pitched him off balance on the narrow sawhorse, and he fell forward, head moving toward the rope noose. Sam kept running, tackling Dean and reversing his momentum. The sawhorse was caught by one of their feet, and flipped over, sending both men crashing into the workbench against the wall.

Their combined weight splintered the table, and Sam landed on top of Dean in a mass of dry wood and a cloud of dust. Dazed, Sam retained enough self-awareness to know they were still in danger and struggled to push himself up. Dean's duffel was just a few feet away. Coughing on sawdust, Sam scrambled the distance and snagged a carton of salt from the bag. He slung a haphazard, uneven half-ring around them.

Sloppy as it may have been, Sam finished with seconds to spare. The spirit reformed after his shotgun attack and lunged at him. It stopped in midair when it reached the line of salt, flattening out like an otherworldly mime hitting an invisible wall. Another deafening wail shattered the stillness of the room, the spirit more enraged than before.

The spirit pulled back and coalesced into a more recognizable human shape. Sam saw a distended, skeletal face form in the wispy smoke, with deeply inset eyes glowing yellow as it glared at them. The incoherent wailing slowed and transformed as well.

"_Fools!_" it raged, arms and legs becoming more distinct. It reached out and wrapped a bony hand around the levers in the exposed wall panel. "_The master will wait no longer!_"

With that, Shandor's spirit wrenched the levers down. Metal screeched as corroded gears and joints moved for the first time in decades.

For a moment, everything was still, but then a deep, ominous shudder vibrated through the floor, and dust spilled as the ceiling began to crack.

Shandor's form seemed to implode on itself, and it poured back into the wall panel before Sam could bring the shotgun back up. Sam panted, lowering the gun to his lap.

Dean coughed behind him, and his thigh shifted against Sam's hip. "Sammy?"

Sam pivoted, shifting to his knees as he reached back and lifted Dean's head out of the rubble of the workbench. "Dean? Are you okay?"

His brother blinked up at him for a moment, then nodded slightly. "It's okay…the table broke my fall."

**SPN SPN SPN**

The first warning Adam had that something had changed in the room was when his lantern flickered out. Then the walls began to shake, and even a rookie like him knew something was wrong. He dropped the shovel beside the mostly excavated body, and grabbed the shotgun he had propped against the wall to his right. He turned, swinging the weapon up in case he needed to defend himself.

A shimmering cloud of…something poured out from an overhead vent, and the musty air of the basement suddenly plummeted to freezing temperatures. The glowing cloud took on shape as it barreled across the room, the features of a shriveled man developing as it got closer. Adam lifted the shotgun and fired, dissipating the gaseous intruder just a dozen feet away. An ethereal cry of pain and rage assaulted Adam's ears.

His lantern came back to life, but almost immediately dimmed again as the mist reappeared, reforming into a more human shape just a few feet from the edge of Adam's protective salt line. A subhuman growl permeated the air as the humanoid form reached toward him, but stopped as though hitting an invisible wall.

Adam cocked the shotgun again and took aim, but he was too close to the line himself, and when the muzzle of his weapon crossed outside the line, the spirit instantly wrapped its bony, gnarled hands around it, ripping it from Adam's grasp and tossing it against the adjoining wall.

The young hunter was far from disarmed, though. Adam reached behind him under his layered shirts and withdrew the .45 and the solid silver blade his brothers had given him for his birthday months before. The handgun was loaded with iron rounds that, if he remembered correctly, would work almost as well as salt rounds, but Adam wasn't sanguine on wasting all his bullets on a ghost that moved as fast as this one.

He was going to need help.

"_Nonbeliever!_" the spirit howled, pacing back and forth like a hungry lion. It lunged at Adam every few moments, but slammed ineffectively against the salt line each time.

Adam disregarded his earlier concern and popped an iron round into the spirit's face, exploding its glowing, wispy head, but it reformed quickly.

"_Insolent whelp!_"

Standoff, Adam thought grimly. Around him the walls were shaking and a loud rumble was coming from above. Dust and debris fell as the ceiling above him began to quake and shift.

Adam sheathed the silver blade and turned to the mostly uncovered bones. Shandor's spirit might be stalking him, but he had the advantage. The salt carton and matches were on his side of the salt line. Keeping an eye on the furious spirit, Adam began dumping salt over the remains.

"_No!_" Shandor screeched, slamming himself against the barrier between them.

**SPN SPN SPN**

The second floor shifted, causing Sam and Dean to stumble as they moved for the stairwell. The old house was trembling as though it was going to collapse any second. Wood panels and oak trim splintered and blew away from the wall as the supports beneath lifted and moved. Entire walls slid to and fro, casting off antique wood detailing like a dog shaking water from its coat.

"Glad to know the engine still works," Dean muttered darkly, grabbing one stable doorframe for support as another wall shifted unexpectedly. "Why's he opening the trap? He's still one soul short of releasing that thing."

"Maybe not," Sam shouted back, keeping pace at Dean's left shoulder as they pushed ahead. Dean's blood ran cold when he realized what Sam meant.

The floor in front of them began to rotate, dragging an entire wall with it, and effectively cutting them off from the stairs. And their brother.

Dean cursed under his breath. "We're gonna have to find another way around."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Shandor tried to penetrate the salt line again and again as Adam finished salting his corpse and went for the accelerant.

"_No! No!_"

Adam tried to keep an eye on the violently thrashing spirit as he worked. Once the bones were gone, the threat should be over. Gigantic devil's trap open or not, with no one to sacrifice the last soul, the demon likely wouldn't appear.

"_You mustn't!_"

He coated the remains in as much accelerant as he dared, given that he'd be in close proximity when it was lit, and was careful to avoid getting any on himself or on the floor near him.

As he proceeded, he realized that the commotion behind him had suddenly ceased. Turning, Adam saw that Shandor's ghost had retreated, and was standing—or _floating_—near the center of the concrete floor area. Its arms reached out, stretching into a crucifixion-like pose as Shandor's voice boomed.

"_I conjure thee, Baphomet! Per sedem Baldarey et per gratiam et diligentiam tuam babuisti ab eo banc nalatimanamilam!_"

A quiet part of Adam's mind urged him to finish burning the remains, but he was transfixed for a moment as Shandor's ghost began to grow, spreading out in all directions as he shouted in the ancient language. It occurred to Adam that he had heard some of the words in Hell, echoing seemingly at random all around as he and Sam had been tortured by Lucifer's most ruthless minions.

Adam couldn't move.

"_I command thee, usor, dilapidatore, tentatore, seminatore, soignatore, devoratore, concitore, et seductore! Reward my sacrifice!_"

Something snapped Adam's brain back to attention, and he spun around, snatching the box of matches from his duffel and striking one as he faced Shandor's remains. The match burst to life, and Adam flung it down onto the bones.

It was too late.

Even as the match fell, out of the corner of his eye, Adam saw Shandor's spirit radiate outward into a cloud of glowing particles, expanding like an explosion in slow motion. The radiant cloud coalesced into a madly swirly vortex. Dark red lines and sigils bubbled up from cracks in the floor, drawn in blood.

The remains at Adam's feet caught fire as the whirlwind of particles was sucked downward, disappearing into the concrete floor. All was silent, even the distant groaning of the house above muting as everything in the basement seemed to abruptly stop.

The center of the concrete floor exploded. A ball of fire and dirt blasted up, erupting into the basement. The shock wave reached Adam as he covered his eyes against the flash of light, and seconds before the deafening sound of the Earth cracking open. He was catapulted backward off his feet, and his head collided with something unyielding. As Adam slid away from consciousness, he was vaguely aware of the air filling with a sulfuric stench, and waves of heat replaced the former chill.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**_Coming up on the grand finale guys! _****_(See A/N at the bottom.)_**_**  
**_

**SPN SPN SPN**

**Chapter 5**

Dean cursed as the floor shifted beneath his feet again, almost tossing him into a wall. The stairwell was the only nearby part of the house that wasn't moving. It was like one of the fun houses he'd seen as a child at a County Fair.

Their progress down the hallway was hampered by the shifting walls. Shandor had done a brilliant job of designing the monstrous house. Whole walls and ceiling sections were unplugging and moving, leaving only small areas of the floor passable. He imagined that Shandor hadn't counted on anyone being inside the enormous puzzle box when it was activated.

As another wall moved and blocked their path, Sam shook his head with a grim frown. "I shouldn't have left him alone."

"I can't complain." Dean smiled ruefully. "Come on. Let's try to circle back. Maybe we can get through one of the connecting halls. We'll try Adam again when we're closer to the stairs."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Adam drifted up through a haze of dizziness and pain, opening his eyes slowly. The room around him was lit by a dim, flickering light, and waves of heat buffeted him. For an awful moment, he was back in Hell…but aside from his pounding head, there was no pain. No demons with blades for claws, no Lucifer, no Michael.

His senses came back slowly, and he sluggishly rolled himself over until he found the source of the light: the work lantern Sam had set up, lying on its side against the wall near his feet. It was wavering, like it was struggling to stay on. Like the lantern, the contents of his and Sam's duffels were strewn all around him.

Rolling over seemed to help with his dizziness, but the throbbing in his head got worse. Adam gingerly ran his hand through his hair. It came back bloody, and there was a very tender knot on the back of his head.

The movement of the wall behind him caught his attention. It was shifting slowly, grinding along the floor as it migrated across the room. Adam stared at it a moment, noting that another room that they hadn't seen earlier was revealed beyond.

_What the hell happened?_

He scanned the room, eyes coming to rest on a hole in the center of the floor. The concrete was cracked, large fissures radiating out toward the walls. Smoke wafted slowly up out of the hole, illuminated from below by a dim orangish glow. Adam could hear huffing, like a large animal panting.

_Shandor's ghost_. The memory came back to him. The spirit they'd been hunting had sacrificed itself. The last of forty sacrifices.

"Oh, crap." Adam spoke softly to himself, more concerned with his throbbing head than anyone—any_thing_—overhearing. He forced himself up to his knees and searched frantically for the salt carton he'd used earlier. The carton was overturned a few feet away, most of its contents spilled in a tall pile.

Frantically, Adam crawled over and scooped the crystals into his hands, spreading them slowly around him to recreate the supernatural barrier. Whatever Shandor had released, Adam didn't want to get that intimate with it.

_One trip to Hell was enough_.

Scattering the salt by hand was haphazard, the line seriously zigzagging whenever the room decided to spin, but Adam managed to close himself into the corner, his back against the crawling wall behind him. It might buy him some time to get help.

He completed the work just in time. A huge, clawed hand reached over the lip of the hole and pulled. An instant later, the demon rose up into the room. Its skin was black and oily, glistening in the flickering light of the lantern and the glow of hellfire from below.

The beast had the head of a goat, hairless, but crowned with three great, curved horns and pointed, laid-back ears, and an inverted pentagram carved into its forehead. A thick, horse-like neck connected the ponderous head to a muscular humanoid body. Four powerful arms swiveled out from its multi-jointed shoulders, with large five-fingered hands. Each long finger ended in a razor sharp claw. Legs as thick as tree trunks supported the creature's weight on cloven-hoofed feet.

Standing seven feet—eight or nine with its horns—it was simply one of the most ferocious things Adam had ever seen. And he'd seen Lucifer and Michael in their natural forms. Staring at it as it struggled onto its feet, Adam shook his head in near-disbelief.

"You are one _ugly_ mother—"

The demon pitched its head back and roared, the throaty sound vibrating the floor and Adam's bones. It didn't do anything for his headache, either. He scrambled back against the shifting wall, willing it to move slower so his salt line wouldn't be outflanked. Adam dug his cell out of his pocket and dialed Dean's number, the first on the list.

Dean answered quickly. "_Adam? Are you okay?_"

"Um…."

The demon took a halting step forward, obviously testing its limbs.

"Not really."

"_Shandor is headed your way! If_—"

"Been here already," Adam interrupted quickly. "He sacrificed himself, I think. Brought the demon up."

"_You mean—?_"

"Yeah. It's here."

The demon's dead, shark-like eyes fixed on Adam, watching his every move.

"It's looking at me."

He heard Sam's voice in the background. "_That's…not good_."

Adam rolled his eyes. "You're telling me, Stanford."

"_We've reached the stairs. We're on our way down. The house is going crazy up here_," Dean said, his voice crackling through the speaker as the signal fluctuated. "_Is it half as ugly as that picture Sam dug up?_"

The demon lowered itself onto its front arms and began stalking toward Adam's corner, a deep, angry growl resonating from its throat.

Adam swallowed thickly and spoke softer. "I think it can hear you, Dean."

Dean's voice changed; he was talking away from the phone. "_I thought you said it would need a human host_."

"_I said _most_ of them do, Dean!_" Sam replied angrily. "_This is no time to nitpick!_"

"_Adam, can you get out of there?_"

Adam glanced around. The demon blocked his view of the stairs leading back into the house. Behind him, the wall had slid enough to reveal more of the hidden room. He flailed to find his flashlight and shone it through the opening. The room beyond was empty, but another set of stairs leading up could be seen through a narrow door in the farthest wall.

"I think so. There's more stairs behind a wall."

"_Take 'em_," Dean ordered. "_See if we can meet up on the first floor_."

Adam closed the phone and retrieved his handgun, which fortunately had landed near him. The demon was moving haltingly toward him, still. It seemed to sense the salt barrier between them, and was shuffling left and right, looking for a path of attack.

He didn't give it a chance. The wall had moved enough so Adam could squeeze through the opening. So long as he didn't breathe. The demon clearly realized what he was doing, because it angled itself closer to the wall, trying to reach across the salt line. It howled when its hands were repelled.

It took several long, uncomfortable seconds, but Adam managed to squeeze through the slender gap and enter the hidden room. It was only fifteen or twenty feet across, small next to the basement. There were some boxes and storage cabinets in the room, but they were open and obviously empty. Whatever Shandor or his cult had kept in there, it was long gone.

On the other side of the wall, the demon bellowed angrily. Adam bolted for the almost-hidden stairs, pausing only to check the chamber on his gun. His head pounded with each hurried step, but he pressed forward; he'd pass out later.

When he was within arm's reach of the doorway, Adam heard the _thump-thump-thump-thump_ of heavy feet behind him. An instant later, the demon exploded out of the wall, horns first. Its bulk demolished the wood, sending splinters and fragments hurtling across the room. The metal framework continued moving, slightly faster now that its wood covering was removed.

Baphomet cast an angry glance around, then spotted Adam near the stairs. It charged, roaring and bearing a set of long fangs from its drooling mouth.

Adam spun and ran backward, firing his .45 seven times as he retreated. One round went wide, the next grazed the demon's ear, but the remaining five planted themselves in the creature's head and neck. Baphomet stumbled, shaking its massive head as though Adam had dazed it, but didn't seem too injured.

He turned back and bolted through the stairwell door, smirking to himself. Five hits out of seven. "God, I'll never complain about training again!"

Halfway up the stairs, he heard the demon ram the narrow doorway and stop, pounding on the walls in blunted fury.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Sam found a relatively stable area near the den where they could regroup. He had Dean's duffel bag on the floor, rummaging for weapons they could use against the demon. They'd come in fully loaded, just in case, but some of their tools were split between the three bags, and two of them were downstairs with the demon.

"How long do you figure we have until the trap is completely open?" Dean asked, eyeing the still-moving ceiling panels. The walls on the first floor had stabilized, finally, only a few segments were still shifting into position. The floor was littered with shattered glass and toppled furnishings where the walls had shifted away from their regular locations.

"Don't know." Sam shook his head, glancing up at his brother from where he worked. "I'd say we have some time. The design is amazing, but it's old and probably corroded. The fact that it's moving _at all_ is a miracle."

"Or a curse," Dean added.

"Funny how close those two usually are, eh?" Sam went back to organizing. "We've got two shotguns and plenty of salt rounds. We know a few exorcisms by heart, but all the holy water is in the other bags, and we're a man short."

"Not anymore," Adam's voice called from behind them. He was making his way up the hall toward them, having to climb over a few upended cabinets and bookshelves.

Dean smiled at the younger man. "Adam, thank God." He frowned as the blond hunter got to them. "Hey, what's this?" He reached out and touched the base of his brother's skull, finding still damp blood. "Are you all right?"

Sam turned, taking in Adam's bedraggled appearance.

Adam winced when Dean probed the back of his head. "Had a rough encounter with a wall when Shandor released the demon."

Dean held up a hand with three fingers extended. "How many fingers do you see?"

Adam frowned, then shot Dean an apologetic look. "Will you be mad if I say six?"

Dean scowled. "Damn it. You've got a concussion. Sit down here." He guided Adam to the floor beside them. "You get a good look at the thing?"

"Does it look like the pictures?" Sam asked, stepping over to examine the younger man's injury himself. The wound wasn't bad, but it was swollen and probably hurt like a bitch.

"Well," Adam took a few deep breaths, "it _sorta_ looks like a goat. Though it makes _you_ look short."

"Yikes," Dean murmured. "Did it attack you at all?"

"It came after me when I ran. I burned half a clip of iron rounds into his head, but all that did was slow it down."

Sam looked at Dean in alarm. "We've got to stop it before the trap opens all the way. If that thing gets out—"

"It'll probably eat the neighbors. And us!" Dean agreed bleakly. He bit his lip, thinking.

Sam handed Adam a cloth to press against the lump on his head.

Dean began to nod.

Sam knew that meant he had a plan. _We're doomed_.

"All right. Do we have any spray paint?" Dean asked.

Sam pointed at the floor. "In the other bags in the basement."

"That…actually works. Okay. I think I know how to handle this. We need to set a trap, and then lead this demon into it."

Sam frowned and forced himself not to inquire about his older brother's mental health. "And try not to get killed in the process. How are we going to get down there without it attacking us?"

"Leave that to me." Dean grinned, and then Sam knew they were in trouble.

"What can I do?" Adam asked, pushing himself to his feet with some effort.

At that, Dean frowned. "Find your way outside and get to the car. You're in no condition to fight this thing."

"I'm not leaving you guys in here alone," Adam countered stubbornly.

Sam nodded sagely. "He's your brother, all right, Dean."

Dean glared at him. "Yeah, he shows a little attitude and suddenly he's _my_ brother."

Adam wasn't amused. "I'm not leaving."

"How can you shoot this thing when you're seeing double?" Sam asked, trying to be reasonable.

"It'll be harder to miss that way."

Dean sighed, relenting. "Fine. But you're sticking with me. Don't wander off."

Sam reached down and grabbed a shotgun. "What do you have in mind?"

**SPN SPN SPN**

The farther down the stairs Dean got, the stupider his plan started sounding. He could already hear the demon growling and snarling somewhere below him. They had determined from the house plans that the stairwell ran up near the center of the elaborate trap. The demon would be able to move up or down the stairs, but not out into the house.

At least for a while. The house was still moving.

They laid more salt at the entrances to the first and second floors, just in case. At Adam's suggestion, they poured the salt along the walls as well as the doors, to make sure the thing didn't just bust through them. Covering the two entrances had used up all their remaining rock salt—they couldn't find any table salt in the wrecked kitchen—so it had to be enough.

Dean reached the basement and slowed, bending to see beyond the entranceway. The demon seemed to be out of sight, behind the stairs. Probably in the other room where Adam had escaped.

Raising his shotgun, Dean crept to the bottom of the steps and scanned the dark room. Light from their lantern still flickered, casting long shadows across the open space. He couldn't see anything, and even the demon's heavy breathing had stopped.

Dean heard the movement to his immediate right before he saw the clawed hand swooping down. Reflexively, he dove forward and rolled across the cool concrete. He came up and turned. The demon was right by the stairs, its clawed hand shredding the drywall to the left of where Dean's face had been seconds earlier.

He came up firing, sending two blasts of rock salt into the demon's torso. It stumbled back, clutching at its chest, and shrieked.

At least rock salt hurts it, Dean thought. He wasted no time bolting back up the stairs, reloading his shotgun without looking down.

The demon recovered and lunged around the corner of the stairwell, swiping at Dean's ankles with two of its arms. Dean felt the denim of his jeans split at the left ankle. _Too close. _

He turned when he reached the top of the first flight, putting two more shells into his pursuer. The demon was infuriated. It gave chase, its cloven feet clicking against the stairs.

Dean didn't wait, just turned and took the steps two at a time, Baphomet close on his tail.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Sam peeked around the corner. The basement was empty. Dean's distraction had worked; the demon was racing up the main stairwell.

Silently, he slipped out of the narrow secret staircase into the hidden room. Adam had been right: the demon had made short work of the moving wall. Debris was everywhere. Long claw marks marred the walls and floor where the creature had tried unsuccessfully to get out.

He moved quickly over to where their duffel bags rested. Their supplies were scattered, but he found the spray paint cans easily enough.

The hole where the demon had emerged was large but clean. Most of the debris and dislodged stone had landed farther out, along the walls. There was plenty of space to draw a new devil's trap around its resting place.

Gunfire sounded in the house above him. Sam took a deep breath and went to work as quietly as he could.

**SPN SPN SPN**

There were different kinds of demons. Some were the smoky, gaseous kind hunters dealt with all the time, while others were corporeal. Some were smart, some were dumb. Some remembered being human, and were thus more sympathetic…some were just pure evil. But the one thing they all shared in common was a massive ego.

So, when Dean got the jump on Baphomet and injured it, however mildly, it was more or less a sure bet it wouldn't give up until it was feasting on Dean's sweet hide.

It was unclear yet if Baphomet fell into the smart or the dumb category, but either way, it didn't disappoint. It followed Dean doggedly, even though it was somewhat slowed by the congested stairwell.

Dean swung past the first floor landing, not stopping or looking back. He kept running, bounding toward the second floor as quickly as he could. The demon was only seconds behind him. It passed the doorway to the first floor with barely a glance.

When Dean reached the second floor, he crossed through the doorway into the devastated hallway outside the study and stopped. They'd done better than just line the wall. The entire landing was covered in scattered salt pellets. The demon could go no further.

Baphomet seemed to sense the problem, careening to a stop just a few steps short of the landing. In its haste, it ended up on all fours—or, sixes—just one step away from where Dean was waiting for it.

"Wrong turn, fugly." Dean fired his shotgun with both barrels, point blank.

The blast struck the demon in the head and chest with enough force to knock it backward. It tumbled down the steps, landing in a heap on the flight below, howling in pain. Dean reloaded his weapon, stepping out onto the landing to get a clear shot.

From below, the demon screeched as more bullets pelted it from below. Adam was on the first floor, hammering away with iron rounds from his reloaded .45.

Dean jogged down closer as the demon tried to recover and put two more blasts into its midsection. It fell, rolling partway down the next flight of steps, in Adam's direction.

"Adam! Stay behind that salt line!" he warned from above.

"Not—not a problem," Adam called back, voice shaking. The kid might need medical attention before the night was over. He was a trooper making it this far.

Dean followed the slowly retreating demon down. It stopped at the first floor landing, swiping the doorway and trying in vain to get at Adam. From his position above, Dean saw Adam sitting back against the wall in the first floor hallway, reloading his handgun and firing again.

He was beginning to think Baphomet belonged in the dumb category. So far it was only reacting to them, not using any strategy. That was fine by Dean; he would be happy to send it packing with a minimum of trouble.

Baphomet tried again, fruitlessly, to breach the doorway where Adam was, but it couldn't. Dean reloaded and moved closer. Suddenly, the demon stopped, and stood taller on its legs. It sniffed the air around it, snorting like a bull. Dean fired, but abruptly, the demon turned and bolted down the steps. The shotgun shells went wide, missing completely.

Dean met Adam at the door and the two headed down the stairs, quickly but cautiously.

_Come on, Sammy, be ready!_

**SPN SPN SPN**

Sam worked as fast as he could. The trap had to be large enough to cover the floor around the hole. They wanted to get the demon as close to where it had emerged as possible so it would still be within the large confines of Shandor's original trap.

He sprayed the next section. They only had red paint, and in the gloomy basement, with only the flickering lantern, the reddish tint almost blended in with the gray concrete.

So long as the demon had eyesight similar to a human, they'd be fine.

Sam had only one pie-shaped wedge left in the circular trap. The quick-setting paint meant that seven-eighths of the circle was already dry. He shifted place over toward the stairs and bent to fill in the remaining section.

As he held the can out to draw the final set of sigils, he froze. His mind drew a total blank. Sam looked over at the sigils to his right, from where he'd just come, then at the ones to his left, but…

Sounds like that of an avalanche of wood pierced the quiet room. Sam turned, surprised, only to be caught directly in line with Baphomet as it charged back into the basement.

Sam felt one huge hand close around his throat, and then he was lifted into the air and across the room. Moments later, he was slammed back-first into a wall with crushing force. Agony lanced through his chest and side as he found himself face to face with the massive demon.

Its eyes changed from oily black to glowing red as it leaned in, sniffing him like a wild animal. The glowing orbs seemed to pierce into his mind. The pressure on his throat tightened, cutting off his air.

"_I smell the Morning Star_…" a deep, gravelly voice echoed in Sam's brain as he struggled for air. "_But he is not free… What have you_ done, _subcreature?_"

Was it reading his mind? Could it actually _smell_ Lucifer on him? Sam gasped for air, clawing at the demon's immense hand. The thought made him feel sick. He had enough trouble living with his possession by Lucifer; Sam didn't want to have to explain the whole screwed up mess to a berserk demon.

The demon's two rear arms raised above Sam, razor-sharp talons extending from the large fingers. They appeared thick enough to tear him in two.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Dean arrived in the basement in time to see Sam get rammed into the far wall. He glanced over the floor quickly, noticing immediately that the trap wasn't complete.

"Damn it!" Dean advanced into the room. Adam was right behind him. Dean pointed at the dropped paint can. "Finish that, now!"

His youngest sibling didn't argue, diving for the can and hurriedly checking to see which sigils were left to do. He was already painting when Dean crossed over into the trap himself. The demon was just on the other side, mere feet outside the circle.

"_Hey!_" Dean shouted, drawing Ruby's demon-killing knife from its sheath. He'd held it in reserve, not knowing if Baphomet would be vulnerable to it. Not all demons were.

The creature didn't turn, just continued trying to twist Sam's head off.

Dean pivoted and flung the knife, then brought his gun up. The knife imbedded itself in the demon's back. It screamed, twisting around to see what had hurt it. Noticing Dean, it released Sam and spun toward him, advancing angrily. Two more shotgun blasts barely slowed it down.

Falling back, Dean crossed the trap, coming out at Adam's side as the younger man discarded the paint can and fired his .45 at the onrushing beast.

It slammed to a halt barely two feet from where Adam kneeled on the floor. The trap was complete. Baphomet was enraged. It raised all four arms and lunged forward, but literally bounced off the mystical barrier between them.

With Sam on all fours and coughing, Dean took up the next task himself. He began an exorcism—the only one he'd memorized, no point in taking away Sam's job—while Adam moved to retrieve his own shotgun from the other side of the room.

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio_…"

The demon roared, trying again to attack Dean, but it was no use.

Dean stepped back a few feet anyway, just in case. "_Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte_…"

When Adam returned, the demon turned on him, trying vainly to get out of the trap. When it began sniffing at the recently painted section, Adam intervened. He fired two salt rounds into the demon's upper body. It screeched and stumbled back toward the center of the trap and the hole where it had emerged.

Dean paused the recitation long enough to add his own firepower to the attack. His shotgun blast pushed the demon farther back, and it staggered, collapsing halfway into the opening.

"_Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo. Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebi Suae. Benedictus deus. Gloria patri!_"

With a final, impotent cry, Baphomet fell backward. It never landed. In mid-air, the beast's body erupted in flames, disappearing in an instant in a burst of light and smoke. All that was left was a thin powdering of sulfur on the concrete floor and Ruby's knife.

As soon as the fireworks stopped, an eerie quiet descended over the room. The overturned lantern in the corner finally stopped flickering, and cast a brighter glow over them.

Dean turned to Adam, who was standing a few feet to his right. "You okay?"

The younger man nodded slowly, though he was sweating. "I was really dizzy, but I'm feeling better now."

Dean smirked. "That's the adrenaline. It'll wear off and that headache will be back in force. Why don't you sit down while I check on Sammy?"

Adam nodded and all but collapsed onto the dusty floor. "Sound medical advice."

Trotting across the trap, keeping his shotgun ready just in case, Dean moved to kneel beside his other abused brother. "Sammy? You with us?"

Sam clutched at his neck, but looked up and nodded. His voice was hoarse. "'M alive."

Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, casting a relieved glance across to Adam, who was sinking closer to the floor as the adrenal high wore off. "Well…that wasn't so hard, now was it?"

If Sam could have managed it, Dean was sure he would have groaned as loud as Adam.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Dean sat beside Adam at the bar. The diner looked old-fashioned, but apparently it was just a style choice, judging by the menus and choices. He nudged the younger man. "Don't forget to get more ice. That one's mostly water."

"Trust me," Adam answered distractedly, holding the bag against the large lump on the back of his head. "I won't forget." He was eyeing a cute, brunette waitress pouring coffee at the end of the bar.

They had stopped for some food a few miles away from the Flemings' place, on the way to the motel. Dean needed to call Bobby anyway, and they all could use some fuel. "Long night" didn't begin to describe it.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. Sam had been lingering by the Impala, ostensibly putting away the first-aid kit where they'd patched each other up earlier. Now he was sitting on the hood, staring up into the night sky, looking about as alone as someone could look.

He turned back to Adam, who was still staring down the bar. The waitress was headed their way. "Hey, can you handle this? I gotta go outside."

Adam looked at him absently. "What? Oh, yeah, yeah, Dean, go." He waved his hand in the direction of the door. He hid the ice pack beneath the bar as the brunette waitress got closer and smiled brightly. "Hi there!"

Dean left the stool and retreated, laughing. _I'm creating a monster_.

Exiting into the cool night air, Dean headed for the car, scanning their surroundings. The all-night diner's parking lot was all but empty, a few semis parked near the road. The first hint of dawn was visible through the trees to the East.

He circled around to the nose of the Impala and slid into place next to Sam. Reaching over, Dean gently poked his sibling in the side. Sam winced, grunting softly.

Dean nodded authoritatively. "Yeah, pretty sure those ribs are cracked. We can stop by an ER if you want."

"I've had worse," Sam whispered hoarsely. His neck was bruised badly, but there didn't seem to be any internal damage.

"I talked to Bobby," Dean said, changing the subject. "He called Joshua and Jefferson, and they know a work crew that owes them a favor. They're going to re-floor that basement, build in another devil's trap on top of ours and fill in the whole room. Just to be sure."

The house was a wreck. They'd reversed the levers, once the demon was finally exorcised, but the damage inside had been done. Whole walls had split open, and much of the renovation work the Flemings had done was obliterated.

It was unclear if Shandor's psychotic cult had merely summoned the demon or actually built some sort of Hell Gate, but Bobby was on it. He'd make sure the place was secure before the work crew finished.

"I talked to Annette, too. Explained it all as best I could. She's going to wait until they're done, then sell the place and move back to New York."

Sam nodded slightly. "Good."

They sat silently for a few minutes, Sam staring blankly at the stars, Dean trying to think of something to start the conversation he knew they had to have. It wasn't unlike a hundred other times they'd sat atop the Impala, except this time, Dean _wanted_ to say something and didn't know how.

Adam's words echoed in his head. _If you open up, he might_.

Rolling the thought over in his head, it came to him. Dean pulled out his cell, opened his drafts, and pulled up the text he'd been delaying for weeks. He held it out to Sam, who took it after a surprised moment.

"What is it?"

Dean shrugged. "It's a text I keep meaning to send to Lisa…but I never do. I guess…I guess I don't want to know what she'd say back."

Sam stared at the message for a long while, then handed it back. "You could patch things up, you know. I think she'd listen."

"Maybe."

They sat in silence a while longer before Sam spoke again. "I, uh…I zoned out. In the basement, I just— I've drawn a devil's trap a thousand times and I just…I got to the last part and drew a blank. It's been happening a lot lately."

Dean sat quietly, turning his head to Sam but not making eye contact, afraid he might frighten him off.

"Sometimes…it's hard to remember that I got out," Sam said darkly. "I can still feel…things they did. You know?"

"Believe me," Dean said earnestly, "I do." Even from the corner of his eye, Dean could see the miserable look on Sam's face.

"I could have gotten you and Adam killed tonight."

Dean finally looked over, trying to keep his expression open. "We…we all went into this with a lot of baggage. I know I did. You did. Adam did. We could have gotten each other…"

Sam shifted, visibly uncomfortable. "Dean, you—you said that if I wanted to talk…"

"Yeah," Dean answered simply.

Sam paused, the reluctance showing on his face. "That demon…it said— It said it could _smell_ Lucifer on me."

Dean grimaced. "Really?"

"That's what it said. I guess that's why it came after me."

"Hmm." Dean blinked, soaking that up. "We better buy some _Febreeze_."

Sam glared for a moment, before getting the joke, then punched him in the arm.

Dean wanted to make it easy on him. "Sammy…listen, this, _all_ of this, it's more than a five minute conversation, you know? Adam's gonna be on concussion watch for the next few hours, at least…"

Sam smiled faintly. "Yeah."

"So, I was thinkin'," Dean continued. "Maybe we'll fall off the radar for a while. You know? Clear our heads. Show the kid the Grand Canyon. Spend a few months in Baja. Tijuana, man." He let the idea hang in the air a moment, silently hoping Sam would take it. He was almost surprised when his brother did.

"A few months, huh?" Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Clear our heads. Yeah, I like that idea."

He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder into the diner. "I don't know about Baja, though, Dean. Looks like you have competition now."

Dean followed his gaze. Inside, the brunette waitress had settled in front of Adam, resting on her elbows while he animatedly spoke, pointing occasionally to the back of his head. Dean wondered which heroic tale Adam was spinning for her about himself. He seemed to like fire rescue stories.

"Kid's got the knack. It must be hereditary." Dean grinned, then looked at Sam. "Well, obviously it skipped a generation with you, but still."

Sam elbowed him in the ribs. "I don't think the world is ready for two Deans."

Dean faked a grimace. "_One_ Dean. At best, he's Dean-like, thank you very much."

"I dunno…he might be gaining on you," Sam said, barely hiding his smirk.

Dean sighed. It was going to be a long ride to Baja.

**END**

(One more chapter follows, with a few scenes that were cut from the fanzine print. Chapter 6 is the "Deleted Scenes.")


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Deleted Scenes for Haunted. These were originally in chapter 2, right after they search the house for the first time, and before they settled on burning the dead husband's bones._

_I want to thank everyone who read and reviewed. I hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing. Thanks to Jeanne, Phx, and geminigrl11 for editing last year. This would never have gotten printed had it not been for them._

**SPN SPN SPN**

**Deleted Scenes**

Even with the three of them splitting up, it was still well after lunch when they finished scanning the enormous house—some four hours after they started. After that, they separated. Dean was checking with the house's previous owner, a local landlord. Sam had gone to the County Registrar to research the house itself. That left Adam interviewing the neighbors.

He wished he could switch with Sam or Dean. Adam was starting to think his brothers had taken the sweet jobs.

The first two neighbors were busts. They had just moved in, and only one of them had even met the Flemings. Neither had been inside the house. Which led to Neighbor Number Three, an 85-year-old man.

"And the university _pays_ you to do this?" Walter McCarthy asked incredulously, eyeing Adam critically over thick, wire-rimmed glasses.

Adam smiled thinly. "Enough to keep the lights on, at least."

It wasn't so much that McCarthy doubted his story, just the wisdom of his career choice. _If you only knew, mister_….

The old man harrumphed. "You remind me of my grandson. Straight As all through high school, and he goes into _show business_. Wants to be on TV, for God's sake."

"Something…um, wrong with that?" Adam inquired quietly.

"Have you seen what's on television lately, son? Bunch of horse shit."

"Oh. O-okay."

"Spends thirty thousand dollars on an education, and he's stuck working as an intern for some reality TV show."

Adam opened his mouth to try to get the conversation back on track, but Mr. McCarthy beat him to it.

"Could have been anything he wanted, a doctor, like the rest of our family, but nooo…he got 'the bug.' Whatever that means!"

"Uh, well," Adam stammered, pointing up the street from where they stood on the large porch. "About the Flemings—"

"I never met them. Seen the cops over there a few times though," McCarthy interrupted gruffly.

Adam blinked. "Okay. Well, like I said, we're doing this study—"

"Son, I've been around the world twice. I was an Army surgeon in Korea and Vietnam, and I've never seen a ghost, goblin, or spirit that wasn't brought on by cheap, low-grade alcohol. Whatever's happening in that house isn't supernatural!"

"Right," Adam replied softly. "Well, thanks for your time."

**SPN SPN SPN**

"What address was that again?" the clerk asked with a definite sigh.

He had his back to Sam, flipping through files in a long cabinet. The Registrar's office was nicely adorned, and almost completely deserted, save the clerk and a secretary sitting across the room.

Sam frowned. He'd given the address three times already. "Two-two-oh-six Maplewood."

"And how far back?"

"As far back as you have." Sam replied calmly.

The portly clerk turned to him, frowning over his wire-rimmed glasses and not bothering to hide his obvious boredom. "That'll take at least a few days, sir."

"What?" Sam was incredulous, "You're kidding!"

"There are a lot of files to go through, sir."

Sam stared at him for a moment. "Look…I need this for a very important project for the university. I need to look through those files today. _Please_."

The man stared back, unaffected by Sam's polite explanation. He cocked one eyebrow. "There are a lot of files to go through, sir. And we are _very_ busy."

Sam turned, scanning the completely empty foyer behind him, then turned back to the clerk, who was still staring, one eyebrow higher than the other. It took Sam a moment to decipher the look, though he should have caught it sooner. He'd seen it before.

"I don't believe this," Sam muttered darkly. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, took out a hundred dollar bill, placed it on the counter, and slid it to the clerk.

The clerk eyed the bill. "I'd say it'll still take at least two days, sir."

Sam glowered at him, and slapped a fifty on top of the hundred. The clerk's expression brightened as he casually slid the bills over and into his own pocket. "Why don't you have a seat, sir, I'll be right out."

Sam pinched his lips together and tried to refrain from the response he wanted to give. "_Thank you_."

**SPN SPN SPN**

"Are you Mr. Tulley?"

"Yes."

Dean eyed the owner of the modest one-story house before him. Mark Tulley was an inch or two shorter than him, but broad shouldered and muscular. With his shaved head and stern expression, he appeared somewhat intimidating at first glance. _Looks a little like Vin Diesel_. Dean swallowed his frown at that thought.

"Hello, my name is Dean Stantz. I'm a researcher over at Wake Forest University."

Tulley's face lit up with a grin. "Oh, I got my computer science degree there. Go Deacons!"

Dean smiled at his enthusiasm. "Uh, right. Go—go Deacons."

"What can I do for you?"

"Well, Mr. Tulley—"

"Mark, please."

"Mark. Okay. We—my colleagues and I—are doing some research on the house that the Fleming family bought from you a few years back, and I was hoping you could help us out. Give us some background?"

"What kind of research are you doing?"

"We look into local legends, myths, pretty much anything related to the paranormal history of the city and its surrounding areas. We try to find the factual basis of local lore, stuff like that."

Mark looked skeptical. "You got funding for that?"

"It's a constant battle, every year." Dean's smile tightened.

"Well, what would you like to know?"

"We understand you were the last owner."

"Yeah, I dabble in real estate—or, I _did_, until the housing bubble burst. I was lucky to sell that one at all. Took a loss, but I was happy to just have it off my plate. The place creeped me out."

Dean's eyebrows raised, his interest piqued. "How so?"

"I dunno, it was just…spooky. Especially at night. I didn't have the utilities hooked up, and that place is pretty dark inside without lights. But, really, I was only inside a few times. I tried to clean it up a little, but…." Tulley shook his head.

"You ever see anything inside? Hear noises? Smell anything unusual?"

"No. Not really."

"How about any atmospheric changes?"

Tulley frowned. "Like what?"

"You know, did the air ever get really cold, or the air pressure suddenly change?"

"Uh…well, yeah, actually. There were several places that were a lot colder than the rest of the house, and that basement was crazy. Freezing one minute, then baking the next."

"Interesting," Dean nodded as he jotted a note on his pad.

Tulley crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "So, you guys really get money to look into this stuff?"

Dean grinned ruefully. "We've got a good advisor."

"Really? Who?"

"Doctor Singer," Dean replied absently.

"No kidding! Tim Singer? History 371? I loved him, he was a great guy."

Dean looked up at him. _What are the chances there'd be a real Doctor Singer? _"No kidding. Small world, eh? But, uh, I thought you were a computer guy…."

Tulley nodded excitedly. "Yeah, but one of my minors was in history. I used to talk to Singer all the time. You remember how he used to talk all the time about how hard it was to teach history when the students never saw or touched what they were reading about?"

Dean blinked. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, all the time."

"Yeah! Well, something he and I used to talk about was using computers to immerse people in historical events, give them something they could look at, pick up, you know?"

"Right," Dean nodded. Tulley didn't seem to notice. He was on a roll.

"Well, I've finally found a way to make the project work. _Open-source virtual reality_. Took a long time for this to come around, but I think it could really change the way we teach people. I mean, the possibilities are endless. Want to see?"

_Not really_. Dean stared for a moment, startled by the seething excitement that seemed to have overcome Tulley. "Sure. Why not?"

**SPN SPN SPN**

"The Flemings? No, I can't say I've seen anything too strange over there." Alison Aldridge lived four doors down from the house. A reasonably attractive woman of about forty-five, with long blonde hair, she seemed to know just about everyone in the neighborhood. She was in the midst of baking for a school bake sale when Adam arrived on her doorstep

"They've been having some trouble." He explained while she cooked, eyeing the array of treats on her counter. He hadn't seen so many cookies in his life. "Strange noises, sudden temperature changes…we're trying to help them get to the bottom of it."

"That is so sweet," Aldridge cooed. She turned to him and held out a wooden spoon covered in nearly molten goo of No Bake fudge. "Here, taste this."

Adam held up his hand. "Oh, no, really—"

Smiling expectantly, she pushed the spoon to his lips, not taking no for an answer. "Careful, dear, don't burn yourself."

Okay, he had to admit the chocolate was pretty good. "It's…sweet."

Aldridge eyed him skeptically. "It needs more butter, doesn't it?"

"Um, maybe—"

She tasted the spoon herself. "Mmm. Yes, definitely more butter."

"Mrs. Aldridge, about the Flemings' house—"

"Oh, right! Well, I wish I could help, but I haven't seen anything strange going on over there. Though, I do think it was a little odd that Annette married her late husband's brother. I wouldn't have done that. Of course, Mike's brother is a sleazebag anyway…."

"Mike?"

"Oh, my husband, Michael. He's a nice man, when he wants to be, but he's never home…and he doesn't appreciate good cooking one bit."

Adam felt a shudder run down his spine at the name. He knew it was common enough, but having been possessed by the Archangel Michael, Adam would just as rather forget it altogether. He forced himself back to the conversation at hand, just in time to see an odd look come over Alison's face.

"You, on the other hand, have good taste."

Adam wasn't sure what had changed, but he was suddenly getting a weird vibe from the woman. Alison reached out and touched his shoulder, then slid her hand down his arm.

"Very good taste. I can tell."

_Oh, that vibe_. Adam blinked and just stared at her until she started squeezing his upper arm. _WHOA! _That_ vibe_.

He immediately lurched backward, ramming his hip painfully into the island in the center of the kitchen. "Uh…wow. I, uh, I think that's about all I have to ask right now—"

"You're a very handsome man, Adam…."

Smiling, he smoothed out his sleeve where she'd rumpled the dark green fabric. "It's the shirt. Girls love it. H-happens every time."

He hastily handed her his card. "Call me if, uh…if you think of anything else. About the _case_. Not about— I mean— Uh…okay, bye!"

Adam double-timed it out to the street, more thankful than ever for Sam's running regimen. He smacked himself in the forehead. "Radar's getting rusty, Adam."

**SPN SPN SPN**

Mark sat Dean down in his home office, in front of a computer monitor. Text was flashing by on the screen in mind-boggling number and letter combinations faster than Dean could read it.

"Right now," Tulley explained, oblivious to Dean's confused frown. "C is the only language they have a fully developed API for. I mean, C++ will work, too, but there aren't any extra features for it, yet."

Dean nodded slightly. "That's…yeah, I can see how that'd be a problem."

"But, we can still use this library with C++, and those applications can interface with other libraries that have C++ only APIs, you know, like OSG and ODE."

"Naturally."

Mark grinned broadly, obviously thrilled to have someone to show off his work to. "So, you ready?"

Dean blinked, unsure if no would be an acceptable answer at this point. "Yeah. Sure."

**SPN SPN SPN**

The next house on Adam's list was an old Colonial-style, with a garage in back and two cars parked behind, just out of sight of the street. It took four knocks before anyone stirred inside. A middle-aged man's stern face and mildly discomforting glare greeted him at the door.

"Yes?" It sounded more like _what_.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Peck, I work over at Wake Forest—"

"For the last time, no! We don't want any damned magazines!" The shout was punctuated by the slamming of the door, which almost caught the fingers on Adam's left hand.

He sighed and hung his head. "Right. Thanks."

This was already making for a _long_ day.

**SPN SPN SPN**

Dean felt like an idiot wearing the bulky headset, but he had to admit what he was seeing was kinda cool. Tulley had designed a 3-D recreation of the old Roanoke colony, complete with English colonists.

His geek brother—_brothers_—would love this.

"The people are pretty low-res, of course, but they're only placeholders. Once I got the environment debugged, I'll work on making the people look better, move, all that." Mark explained. "The command shell takes forever to print, even slower than in C—"

Dean didn't have any idea what Mark was talking about, so he ignored him. "Hey, can I walk around?"

"A little. I don't have much of the terrain mapped out, yet, but here," he guided Dean's hand to the keyboard and had him hold down the arrow keys.

Inside the headset, Dean began moving forward. "Awesome!"

He "stopped" in front of a large tree, and even with the incomplete graphics, the word CROATOAN was carved out in large letters. It was just like Sam had described to him once. _Bookworm_. "You even have the tree!"

He heard Mark pause where he'd been typing on the computer. "Heh, I know. The textures are no where near finished, but I had to put that in. That's the part everyone remembers about this story. There are so many theories floating around, but I've always suspected the truth was a lot crazier than what everyone thinks."

Dean huffed, his mind flashing back to Pestilence and Brady's barely averted viral outbreak. "If you only knew."

"What?"

"Uh…I said, if only we knew. For certain, you know?" Dean stammered.

Mark laughed and went back to typing. "Yeah. Um, where were we? Oh, right, the inputs. I'm using a 6-sensor form of input since with that two different coordinate systems can be requested, the real world and the virtual world…."

The sound of Mark's voice was quickly starting to remind Dean of the teacher on Charlie Brown, so he just hit the arrow key and started moving around the little village again. _This would make an awesome video game_.

Maybe he could get Mark to add in some demons to shoot…

**SPN SPN SPN**

Adam was walking up the street, back toward the Flemings' when Dean left Tulley's house.

"Tell Doctor Singer I said hello!" Tulley called from the door, waving.

Dean grinned. "Will do!"

"Who is that?" Adam asked quietly as Dean fell into step beside him.

"Mark Tulley, the last owner of the house."

"He know anything?"

"A little too much," Dean murmured. "It was like freakin' TRON in there."

Adam looked at him quizzically. "Huh?"

Dean blinked, and seemed to snap out of whatever he was thinking about. "Um, he didn't know much, but he did back up what the Flemings told us, and he said there were weird signs in the basement, too."

"Sam got an EMF spike in the basement, but I thought you said it was that transformer outside?"

"Might have been." Dean shrugged. "But Mrs. Fleming mentioned the basement, too. Her husband spent a lot of time down there. We should probably look again to be sure. What did you find?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "A bunch of grouchy neighbors who keep to themselves." He purposefully left out the desperate housewife. _The less said about that, the better_.

Dean grunted. "Well, let's get back and check out the basement. Sam should be back soon."

END

(For Real this Time!)


End file.
